


When Everything Goes to Hell

by downdeepinside



Series: Whose DNA? [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Discussion of Abortion, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of miscarriage, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:17:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downdeepinside/pseuds/downdeepinside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is seventeen weeks pregnant when everything goes to hell. He and John are forced to make a decision they never thought they'd have to, and after that it certainly doesn't get any easier.</p><p>Warning for pregnancy complications and discussion of abortion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This is Really Happening

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, first of all; this is an mpreg fic. If you don't like mpreg, please don't read. I've seen that people can get a little (a lot) mean in comments on mpreg fics because they think it's a disgusting idea; I understand why you might think that but I disagree and I have the right to write whatever I please without scary people being mean. Ahah.
> 
> Second of all, I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters. If I did the program would basically consist of bonking and crying 24/7. 
> 
> If you follow consulting-homosexual on tumblr you may recognise bits of this fic, as well as the plot (to begin with - I've changed the ending and added a middle) as I wrote her a ficlet first, and then decided to make it into a proper long fic. Also, thank you to her and to her nice followers who didn't hate on me and encouraged me to actually write a fic :-)
> 
> The title for this fic comes from the following quote:
> 
> “When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching - they are your family. ” ― Jim Butcher.

“He who leaps for the sky may fall, it's true. But he may also fly.” – Lauren Oliver, Delirium.

***

“Sherlock!” John turned in surprise as his partner stood up and stormed out of the doctor’s surgery without a second glance. The ex-army doctor jumped up from his own chair automatically, “Sher- Wait! Come on a minute!” he turns to the doctor who sits with her eyes soft and her hands clasped over her desk. A silent exchange passes between the two before John nods and turns to leave the office, following Sherlock’s retreating coat tails down the corridor and out onto the street.

Finding the tall dark figure unusually difficult to spot outside John flounders, glancing from left to right and muttering awkward apologies as various men in suits give him dirty looks for standing in the way. When the detective wants to do something, he can do it. And right now the detective sure as hell wants to be invisible.

Luckily, John’s not blind and Sherlock isn’t exactly in his best frame of mind. He spots the man standing on the curb, one hand stuck out as a cab slows to approach him. John swears loudly (earning him more angry glares) before taking quick steps and reaching out his own hand to latch onto Sherlock’s forearm. The taller man glances down in surprise and the pause is long enough to allow an elderly couple to push past and get into the car themselves. Sherlock’s arm drops limply to his side but John’s hand remains where it was and he offers a small smile, not dissimilar to the one the obstetrician had offered John himself a few moments ago.

“We need to talk about this, love.”

***

Sherlock’s fingers are interlaced with John’s and the excitement is practically tangible, buzzing throughout the room just as it has every scan to date. Seventeen weeks. Their baby can now squint, frown, grimace, and maybe even suck its thumb. In roughly twenty five weeks they’ll be able to hold the baby in their arms and any day soon Sherlock should be able to feel it moving inside of him. So much has already changed, and still so much is going to.

The young nurse bustles into the room and grins at the two men, commenting on Sherlock’s ‘pregnancy glow’. The man himself is too excited to scowl, so instead he hums quietly and looks up to the black screen eagerly. John never thought he’d see the day Sherlock would willingly jump up (maybe not jump – his bump, while still small, was a little too round and a little too precious to allow for much jumping) onto a hospital bed when told to do so, and gladly lift his top to reveal his pale stretched skin. Then again, John never thought he’d see the day Sherlock’s skin would stretch over his inflated abdomen to make room for his and John’s baby. Life has a way of surprising him like that.

The cool blue gel is squirted onto Sherlock’s belly, actually meriting a look of slight discontent, before the monitor is switched on and the wand is dug firmly into his bump. A fuzzy black and white picture appears on the screen and Sherlock unconsciously tightens his grip on John’s hand as the two stare at it fixatedly. The nurse, however, is being uncharacteristically quiet.

Sherlock looks up after a moment and frowns a little at the look on the nurse’s face. While a moment ago she had been grinning her lips are now a thin line, she is unconsciously chewing on her bottom lip and her eyebrows are drawn together as if she’s about to cry. She might be, actually; it’s clear this is at most her first year on the job. For some it takes a little longer to be able to contain ones emotions when around a patient.

Sherlock opens his mouth - his eyebrows quirked the way they always are when he’s about to slip an insult – but before he has a chance to say anything, and before John even has a chance to try and stop him, the nurse stands up and brushes her hands down the front of her skirt. “Excuse me, Mr Holmes. Doctor Watson.” The corners of her mouth turn up in what is clearly supposed be a smile but falls majorly flat and she walks to the door as if there is a rod in her back, “I just need to consult with my superior.”

With that, she is gone. Leaving both men behind to panic and Sherlock to grumble about the gel still remaining on his stomach, unsure if he’s to move or not. John’s left hand is still gripping Sherlock’s right and he shifts, placing his right hand on top of their already joined hands. The screen now blank again, John stares intently at Sherlock’s belly (despite the detective’s objections). Sherlock wiggles his fingers, and when that still doesn’t stop John staring at his swollen stomach he huffs loudly, “Stop it. I look like a whale.”

John finally manages to tear his gaze from his child and instead up to his lovers face, he chuckles lightly. “You look nothing of the sort,” he shuffles forward and rests his head in Sherlock’s shoulder, “At least, not yet. Give it a few more months and you might.” Sherlock only responds with an irritated grunt and John smiles, tracing his knuckles with the pad of his own finger.

The door the young nurse had rushed out of moments ago clicks open and both men look up in unison as an obstetrician walks in, her hair pulled back in a loose pony tail and her face all sympathetic smiles as she perches on the small chair next to Sherlock and picks up the wand, revisiting the image the nurse had displayed previously. This time around the men aren’t quite as excited, and after a moment the doctor – Doctor Morstan, John reads – pulls the monitor so only she can see it.

What is probably only a matter of seconds but seems like a number of hours pass before she nods, sighing, and then looking up to Sherlock as she hands him some paper towel. “My office, Mr Holmes, is just down the hall: If you and Doctor Watson could please meet me there in a moment?” Her voice lifts at the end as if she is asking a question but she leaves before either man can answer, her white coat flitting out of the door before either man has the time to form a sentence.

Sherlock extracts his hand from between John’s and starts to awkwardly pat the gel off of his stomach using the towel. John’s hands remain on the bed next to Sherlock and his head is white noise.

“John?”

John blinks, aware someone is saying his name but not quite able to understand what that means. A hand cups his face and he looks up to see Sherlock’s eyes locked on his, the man’s shirt now pulled down as he sits on the edge of the bed.

“I’m sure it’s nothing, bloody doctors.” Sherlock’s voice is oddly soft and John isn’t sure what to say, so instead he chooses to worry his bottom lip with his teeth. “It’s nothing, yeah? So we’ll just go see this... Morstan woman. Then off home, hmm? I believe you owe me after last night.” Sherlock winks but the usual mischievous glint is missing from his eyes.

***

John’s words seem to bring Sherlock back down to earth a little and he shakes his arm, folding his arms over his chest the minute John’s grip drops from his arm. When he speaks his voice is cold, it sounds as if the man is detached but John knows better than to believe that. “Talk, John?” Sherlock scoffs as if John has just suggested that the puddle on the ground consists of hydrochloric acid, “What’s the point?”

He turns, giving up staring out at the road and instead bores daggers into John’s eyes. His expression is carefully blank, but the rims of his eyes are tinged red and the tracks of salty water down his cheeks give him away. “Talking won’t change anything, will it John? Nothing is going to change _this_.”

 “No, love.” John rarely calls Sherlock pet names, now he’s done it twice in the space of five minutes. Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice. “But it’ll help; and we can’t just ignore this, can we?” John takes in a breath and as Sherlock doesn’t so much as blink he steps closer, reaching for his hand, “We need to talk about it, take control.”

Sherlock scoffs again, shifting his stance so he can shove his hands aggressively into the pockets of his Belstaff coat. The coat’s rather good at hiding his baby bump – unless, of course, you’re looking for the slight stretch of the buttons in the middle of the coat or where the bottom doesn’t reach quite as low as it once had. His eyes, for now, are dry. “I think the control has rather been taken from us already, John.”

***

The two men sit in those terrible lumpy chairs they seem to have in every NHS doctor’s office in the country. They aren’t holding hands anymore, but their legs are crossed together, offering a light but not persistent grounding. Over the table Doctor Morstan sits with her hands resting in front of her and a serious look on her face.

“Placenta praevia.”

Silence rings out; the doctor is watching the parents-to-be steadily, as if waiting for a reaction. Both men are silently trying to translate the words. They both fall short, and Doctor Morstan seems to realise this and sighs, as if disappointed.

“The placenta has formed unconventionally; the majority of it is inserted in the lower uterine segment. Effectively, it is blocking your child’s exit route.” She pauses to let the words sink in, instead it only allows more time for the sense of panic Sherlock had been previously feeling to triple. “Placenta praevia can become quite a… serious complication. It can be caused by a number of things, from old age, to smoking during pregnancy, to young age. Whilst some mothers experience cramping with this condition, it is not necessarily the norm. Late in the second trimester bleeding can start to occur and the position of the placenta means that a delivery would have to be through C-section.

“The unusual position of the placenta also results in a number of risks to both mother and foetus. The chances of antepartum haemorrhage and postpartum haemorrhage are much higher than any normal pregnancy, as well as their being a likelihood of puerperal sepsis – a severe form of septicaemia – developing after birth. That is, of course, assuming you carry to term. Due to the position of the placenta it may break off at any time, if a large enough amount is lost it will result in no nutrients reaching the foetus and the child will be lost,”

Sherlock holds up a hand and the doctor stops her depressing spiel, a kind smile fixed on her face again.  When Sherlock talks his voice sounds like John’s great grandfather after ninety eight years of smoking. “While this grim outlining of our current predicament is absolutely riveting, I was wondering if you could – perhaps – skip past the doom and gloom and tell us exactly what it is your building up to. Hmm?”

Doctor Morstan’s smile falters, giving John the distinct impression that the previous ‘build up’ had really been for her own benefit. “Your condition is most critical, Mr Holmes. The chances of both you and baby making it through this pregnancy alive are… slight. And, therefore, as a medical professional with the wellbeing of my existing patient at the forefront of my mind, I am advising a termination.”

***

Sherlock looks away again, anticipating more reasonable words to come from John’s mouth in a futile attempt to placate him. None come and he slowly looks back to John, his little soldier John with his arms folded over his chest and his feet shoulder width apart and a firm expression on his face. He’s waiting, Sherlock realises.

Sherlock’s resolve to bloody well make him wait quickly runs out of steam as a young mother walks by, yelling at her baby as she squawks into her mobile phone and shoves the stroller along aggressively with one hand. How can someone like that be allowed a child, and not John? Dear, lovely, doctor-ly John. How can Sherlock have failed so miserably?

Sherlock’s shoulders sag and his eyes fall shut as a gasp – definitely a gasp, not a sob – escapes his lips. Instinctively, John steps forward and wraps his arms round Sherlock’s body, trying to ignore the bump that was not between them four months ago and instead only focus on his mate. Sherlock’s hands scrabble for purchase on John’s coat, clinging desperately as if letting go might truly end him there and then.

“An abortion, John.” He gasps again and wraps one arm around John’s shoulders so that his hand is free to rub at his wet eyes. “They told me to have an abortion! I… can’t… I- oh god,” he shudders violently and John tightens his grip round the man, “Please don’t make me kill our baby, John.” He whimpers and shakes his head, tears rolling down his face, “Please.”

John’s grip tightens further still and he squeezes his own eyes shut for a moment before pulling away enough to hold Sherlock by the shoulders and look directly into the man’s watery eyes, “I don’t know.” He whispers, quietly. Sherlock opens his mouth to reply but John only shakes his head to silence him, “I could lose you both: The baby and you. I’m not saying I don’t already love it because I do, of course I do. Just… there could be other pregnancies. Other babies. There’s only ever going to be one you, love.”

Sherlock visibly tenses and he takes two steps away as if stung, one hand automatically flying to his stomach in a protective and incredibly possessive manner. “This baby isn’t just some random child, John. We can’t just... dispose of it and get another one! It’s a human being – our human being – with fingernails, and eyelashes, and a heart, John! A real, beating, proper heart. We can’t just kill it.” He rubs furiously at his eyes, his pregnancy hormones really not helping him to keep a cool head; he then starts to frantically wave his arms, “It’s not like this is a death sentence.”

There’s a pause and John licks his lips, “But you’re death could be mine.”

Another pause follows; John remains ram-rod straight while Sherlock flounders in a way that would be hopelessly endearing any other time. Right now it only adds to the weight pushing down on John’s heart. After almost a lifetime, Sherlock stops and his hands fall limply to his side. “You were shot in a war; I rode a cab with a murderer; you were strapped to a vest made of bombs; I dove off a building. Don’t you think that if one of us were going to die young, we'd have done so by now?"

John flinches as images of blood, desperately dark nights, and strangely bright ones spent in hospitals flash through his mind. Suddenly feeling cold he shoves his hands into his pockets and looks out at the road, “But what if, despite all of the wonderful times you’ve cheated death and proved your intelligence over God, you do die? What if you push it too far this time, Sherlock? What if you die and the baby lives?”

Sherlock falls oddly quiet, a curious expression that John can’t decipher on his face. He lets out a desperate huff of air through his teeth and shakes his head, “It’s not – don’t… You could die, Sherlock! And I’ll be left here! With some child that I’m not even capable of loving because every day I’ll look at it, and it will learn to walk, and go to school, and get married; and the whole time I’ll be wondering why the hell you aren’t there. Why you aren’t there to meticulously document every single moment of its life, and why you aren’t there to teach it how to be amazing, and why you aren’t there to humiliate it at any kind of social event – and for god’s sakes are you laughing?” At some point through John’s rant Sherlock’s face had twisted again and his mouth was now pressed tightly shut and his eyes were crinkled, as if heavily restraining the urge to laugh. At John’s angry question Sherlock apparently loses his internal battle and can’t help but smile.

“John, you have said some idiotic things in your time. But that – that little speech? That has most certainly got to be the most ridiculous pile of nonsense ever to come out of your mouth.”

John scowls, still failing to see at what point he’d be able to join in with the joke Sherlock seemed to be so enjoying. The pregnant man is now grinning; his bright red eyes and tracks of tears a complete contradiction with his wide smile and prominent dimples.  “You? Doctor John Hamish Watson – the most benevolent, wonderful, wholly good person I have ever known. You, not love this baby?” Sherlock shakes his head and reaches to take hold of John’s hand, guiding it to his inflated abdomen, “I saw your face at that first ultrasound, John. You couldn’t not love this baby, even if you wanted to.”

They stand like that for a while, ignorant of anyone else on the busy road. Eventually John moves his hand from his partners grip, although his eyes remain trained on the baby; their baby.

John’s voice is alarmingly steady when he speaks again. Then again, why wouldn’t it be? He’s always been good with danger.

“If you continue with the pregnancy, it’ll be incredibly high risk. You’d have to be on bed rest for the entirety of the last month, at least. And there’d definitely be no more chasing after criminals.” Sherlock’s eyes widen but other than that his expression is still. “And the minute something goes wrong – the minutes I have to choose – it’s going to be you. If I have to choose between this baby and you, I’ll choose you. Every time.”

Sherlock nods slowly, pulling a key out of his pocket and proceeding to simply stare at it in his hands, “Does that…” he rolls back his shoulders in a distinctly John-like fashion and looks up to the army doctor, “Does that mean you won’t… We’ll try? We’ll keep it?” he licks his dry lips with an equally dry tongue and blinks in an effort to remain neutral, “Does that mean you’re willing to have this baby with me?”

John lifts his chin, straightens his back, and swallows air like a drowning man.

“Yes.”


	2. Domestic Bliss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er... sorry. The next chapter should be up by the end of the week.
> 
> I'm not a huge fan of this chapter and it's hasn't been checked enough because if I read it too closely I'll delete the whole thing :c all mistakes are mine and if you point them out I'll marry you.

“Mistakes are proof that you’re trying.” – Unknown.

***

John is awoken at seven in the morning, which would be fine by him if it wasn’t a Saturday and he hadn’t had a full week of work the previous week. At first he’s inclined to believe his sudden wakefulness is due to Sherlock, who is out like a light and snoring loud enough to wake most of London (the snoring is new, apparently one of the many delights of pregnancy). It isn’t until a knocking can be heard downstairs John realises his partner isn’t to blame for his sudden insomnia, but in actuality, one Greg Lestrade.

The past three weeks have passed in a weird state of domestic bliss. Lestrade has (according to Sherlock) been on holiday in the Maldives, and Mrs Hudson went to visit her sister weeks ago and is yet to return. Much of John’s time has been spent either at work or lying on the sofa with Sherlock, who is happy to be coddled as he reads endless articles and books that John has yet to dare to ask about. While a few vile experiments have taken up residence on the kitchen table, nothing toxic stinks up the flat, and everything seems oddly peaceful.

So of course Lestrade had to ruin it all by returning.

As the door is hammered for a third time (and thank the heavens Mrs Hudson _is_ away) John jumps out of bed, pulls on a dressing gown, and runs down the seventeen steps to let Lestrade in. The detective inspector looks haggard, though a light tan does suggest he’s been enjoying the sun. He takes one look at John and sighs,

“You aren’t Sherlock.”

John resists the urge to scowl and instead simply raises an eyebrow and folds his arms across his chest, daring Greg to enter the flat. He doesn’t, nor does he say anything else, so John decides to let eight days of not enough sleep loose on him. “It is a _Saturday_ , Greg. It is seven in the morning on a _Saturday_. And after knocking on the door twice, only to have been ignored, you decided the third time would be the charm? You didn’t – I don’t know – think that maybe the occupants of this house could use a little sleep?”

Lestrade has the decency to look a little sheepish, “I need Sherlock’s help,”

“He’s asleep.”

“He never sleeps.”

As John opens his mouth it occurs to him that Sherlock hasn’t actually had a face-to-face encounter with Lestrade in almost five weeks. At fifteen weeks his bump had been plenty small enough to go hidden under his large black coat, now it was bordering on visible. “Sherlock isn’t very well.”

John can hear footsteps in the flat above and silently prays to God Sherlock doesn’t appear and ruin the secret they’ve kept so well.

“Oh,” Lestrade frowns, glancing out at the street, “He’s still got bad morning sickness, then?”

***

The pregnancy had been planned, after months upon months of Sherlock staring at the perfect families in Regent’s Park John had subtly breached the topic and the two had instantly decided to try. While not all men can get pregnant it isn’t exactly rare for them to be able to, and after multiple tests it became clear Sherlock was one of the lucky ones. It took almost seven months for them to finally get pregnant, and the first thing Sherlock felt when he took a test (alone, for John was at a conference in Manchester) was fear. Pure, unadulterated, fear.

He took three tests, because he’s a scientist and all scientists worth their salt know that to improve a test’s reliability you need to repeat it. Each test confirmed what he already suspected and promptly afterwards his stomach violently rejected his breakfast, as it to drive the point home further.

After stumbling from the bathroom in a state of absolute terror he locates his mobile, and though all his instincts and all logic tell him to call John he finds himself dialling Lestrade’s number.

Lestrade picks up after just two rings.

“Sherlock?” the inspector sounds tired and Sherlock looks at the clock and frowns, it’s barley six in the morning, “Sherlock why are you calling me? It’s.. it’s bloody early.”

Sherlock knows he should say something but instead he just breathes, heavily. Lestrade must hear it because the next time he speaks he sounds worried.

“Sherlock? Are you alright? Where are you? What’s happened?”

“I just threw up.”

The words aren’t the words he was intending, but they are sort of true. They make Sherlock giggle a little, and the giggle makes him panic more because he’s going insane and is clearly in no way fit to be a father.

Lestrade moves, and his wife’s mumbles of protest can be heard over the phone, “Where are you? I’m coming over.”

Sherlock isn’t sure if he’s laughing or crying at this point but he must manage to tell Lestrade where he is because twenty minutes later the man lets himself in.

***

John uncrosses his arms and stares at Lestrade for much longer than socially acceptable; the man on the doorstep clears his throat uncomfortably and shuffles awkwardly.

“Ah, I take it you didn’t know I know?”

John shakes his head and steps away from the door, a silent invite. He takes the stairs up to 221B with Lestrade in tow and when they make it into the living room Sherlock is sprawled out on the sofa, wearing just his pyjamas. His bump sticks out, causing his shirt to pull up a little, and Lestrade stares at it for a moment in silence.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock looks far too pleased to see the man and sits up a little straighter, the fact he was unaware of the man’s presence suggesting he’s a little more out of it than he’d care for anyone else to believe. “You have a case?”

John remembers his irritation from earlier, “Actually, no. Lestrade was just leaving.” Sherlock frowns and John holds up a hand, “After I reminded him of your… _condition_ , it occurred to him he could actually do his job for once and solve the case on his own.”

Both detectives look equally offended.

“Er,” Lestrade has a hand in his hair and his eyes are wide, flicking between the two men. “John I’m not being funny just.. Ah, it’ll only take a minute. And, I mean, he’s pregnant but it doesn’t look like he’s dying or anything so,”

“Get out.”

The change in John’s tone from slightly irritated to damn right furious is so sudden both Sherlock and Lestrade sit up and take notice. John clenches his fists and shakes his head, “Get out of my house, now.”

“Jo-”

John shoots Sherlock a mutinous look and the detective cows, wrapping his arms protectively around his small bump. John looks back over to Lestrade and the man shakes his head in obvious confusion, before turning and making himself scarce.

***

Sherlock is sat in a random spot in the middle of the floor when Lestrade enters. His arms are hugging his legs and his wide eyes are staring unseeingly at the corner where the floor and wall meet. Lestrade recognises the position well from Sherlock’s drug days and it immediately sets him on high alert as he takes small, cautious steps towards the man as if he’s a bomb prone to explode any moment.

Sherlock whimpers and looks up to Lestrade, “I’m sorry it’s so early.”

Unconsciously Lestrade checks Sherlock’s pupils and the tight coil around his heart loosens a little before he sits down next to Sherlock and cringes, “I’m getting a little old for crawling about on the floor.”

Sherlock laughs a mirthless laugh and buries his head in his hands.

***

The front door to Baker Street swings shut and John sits down on the coffee table, his entire body shaking. Sherlock watches cautiously, not moving an inch. When John loses his temper it’s a dangerous thing, and while all logic screams that John won’t hurt him he’s been wrong before. That’s the thing about John; he defies logic.

After what seems like an hour Sherlock whispers cautiously, “John?”

Sherlock can practically hear John counting to ten in his head before looking up, taking a few deep breaths, and pulling the face he pulls when Sherlock’s left something particularly nasty in the fridge. “Sorry,”

Sherlock tries to not let the fact he’s relieved show too obviously and focuses on smiling a wobbly smile, “I thought,” he swallows and closes his eyes, “I thought we were okay.”

John shrugs and for a moment he contemplates wrapping his arms around Sherlock tight enough to suffocate him and never letting go, just sitting on the sofa until they both die, until their bones rot and they end up as nothing more than a pile of dust on the sofa that can never be separated. His own thoughts cause him to shiver and he squeezes his hands together, each one holding the other like a lifeline. “You’re tired a lot,” he says, and as the words leave his mouth it’s the first time he realises he’s noticed this. “But you don’t sleep.”

Sherlock’s breath catches and he closes his eyes, “I’m pregnant, I’m allowed to be tired.”

“What have you been reading?”

Sherlock’s brow furrows and his mouth twists in confusion.

“You’ve been reading articles and books, but you haven’t bought any. They’re on your phone. You only read on your phone when you don’t want me to see what it is you’re reading.”

John hadn’t even realised he’s noticed all this. Sherlock looks as if he could cry.

“They’re just... nothing.” John snorts and Sherlock winces, “Fine. It’s just… pregnancy stuff.”

“Placenta praevia stuff?”

Sherlock’s silence is enough of an answer.

***

For the most part Sherlock and Lestrade sit in silence, and at some point Lestrade’s leg turn numb and Sherlock falls sideways until his head rests on the older man’s shoulder. Sherlock talks about cases in dribs and drabs; he occasionally mentions John, or Mycroft, or weirdly enough Lestrade’s daughter. At one point Lestrade is convinced Sherlock has fallen asleep and prepares himself to gently move the two of them when Sherlock pulls in a quick breath and says something he didn’t expect.

“John and I have been trying to conceive.”

It’s not as surprising as you might think for Lestrade to hear this. He’s known the two flatmates have been much more than that since Sherlock’s stunt on the rooftop several years ago, and he’s seen Sherlock around children enough to know that he’s not quite as terrible with them as you would expect.

“We’ve been trying for about seven months – he insisted we got a load of tests done first. Of course I’m the one that can get pregnant, not him. Always the freak,” Lestrade opens his mouth and Sherlock groans, “No, I don’t mean it like that just... I don’t know.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything else and Lestrade stares off at the bathroom, piecing together this little story with the vomiting, and the laughing, and the crying. He bites his lip and runs a hand through his hair out of habit, “Sherlock, are you pregnant?”

Sherlock stands up quickly and then pauses for a moment as his vision displays blanks spots. By the time he’s recovered Lestrade is also standing.

“It’s not that I’m not happy, because I am. I’m… I’m really perfectly happy, actually. And it’s not that I’m afraid of telling John, because I’m not, I can’t wait to tell John. It’s just that I kind of am afraid of telling John, and I’m kind of not perfectly happy, and I’m kind of worried that’s not alright.”

The flat is filled with the sound of two men breathing heavily before Lestrade swears quietly under his breath and steps forward, wrapping his arms tightly around the man in front of him. Sherlock doesn’t move an inch but Lestrade doesn’t care, and when Sherlock eventually murmurs a hesitant, “Please don’t be offended but I think I’m going to throw up again,” he grins.

***

The silence between the parents to be doesn’t last long and within minutes they are both standing and engaging in a screaming match. John has jumped onto the coffee table in a childish attempt to gain some height on Sherlock and Sherlock waves his arms about and cry’s angry tears of frustration. It’s the sort of argument where neither party are entirely sure why it started, but after weeks of painful peace disguised as domestic bliss something has to give.

“You can’t stop me from going on cases!”

John barks a laugh (that comes out as more of a roar) and declares he can bloody well do what he likes to Sherlock, since Sherlock is currently carrying _his_ child. Sherlock screams that it’s still _his_ body and John takes a step forward and reaches out his hands, ready to shove the detective.

Both men freeze and then pull away in unison.

“Sherlock I’m so-”

Sherlock shakes his head and turns away in a white rage. He stalks over to the door and pulls his coat on over his pyjamas before shoving shoes on his feet and swinging the door open, “If you need me, I’ll be at the crime scene, doing _my_ job.”

The door slams shut with such ferocity several pictures fall from the walls.


	3. We Need to Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I scrapped chapter three and started again - I don't want to look to closely at it so please tell me if there are dumb typo's :'c

“For millions of years, mankind lived just like the animals. Then something happened which unleashed the power of our imagination. We learned to talk and we learned to listen. Speech has allowed the communication of ideas, enabling human beings to work together to build the impossible. Mankind's greatest achievements have come about by talking, and its greatest failures by not talking. It doesn't have to be like this. Our greatest hopes could become reality in the future. … All we need to do is make sure we keep talking.” – Stephen Hawking.

***

Sherlock storms down the stairs and out onto the street, hot breath rushing through his flaring nostrils. He sticks his arm out for a cab just as his eye catches one Detective Inspector, leaning against a police car with his legs crossed awkwardly as if afraid Sherlock might stomp up to him and rip his balls off. He could, actually. Probably wouldn’t help, but he could. Maybe stick them to his bedroom door as a warning for any army doctor’s that thought they might be sleeping in there tonight.

The cab pulls to a stop in front of the detective just as Lestrade notices him and calls out his name, his voice equal parts exasperation and concern.

Sherlock stares at the driver for a moment and the driver stares back, before Sherlock lifts a shoulder in apology, scowls at Lestrade just to be clear he’s not coming over for a friendly chat (as if) and crosses the street towards the police vehicle.

“How long have you been here?” Sherlock demands, wondering if the slight tremble in his voice is obvious to anyone who doesn’t know to look for it.

Lestrade’s jaw twitches and he rubs at it with a spare hand, uncrossing his legs to try and stand a little taller, “Since John threw me out, which I have to say I was surprised by. Normally you’re the one with about as much social skills as a doorknob.”

Sherlock’s eyes fall shut for a moment and his stomach tightens, “You upset hi-”

“I can see that,” Greg’s eyes flicker over Sherlock and for the first time he notices the baby bump. Sherlock’s pyjamas, consisting of a blue tee and blue and white stripped trousers are visible due to the fact the younger man didn’t bother to do up his coat while making his rather hasty retreat from Baker Street. The shirt rides up a little and pulls tightly across his twenty week pregnant belly and the trousers, while clearly designed to hang low, are pressing tight enough into his waist line to leave palpable red lines. The DI whistles and looks up to the man before him, fighting the wave of nostalgia as he remembers the first time Sherlock ever stepped into a police car with him after being caught in the wrong place (a crack-den) at the wrong time (a drugs bust). “Wow,”

Sherlock cuts him off, not sure he’d have liked where that sentence was going. “The case, Inspector.”

Greg’s eyebrows furrow and he shakes his head, waving a hand in Sherlock’s direction. “But… you’re..”

Sherlock says “Pregnant?” at the same time as he says “Wearing pyjamas.”

Both of the men stare at each other blankly before Sherlock pulls the coat as tightly around himself as possible and does up the top three buttons, leaving the others open (more due to necessity than choice). His bump is still rather obvious, due to his naturally slim frame and love for any form of tight fitting clothing.

“You can tell me about the case on the way.” He says, before getting in the passenger seat and tapping out a pattern on the dashboard.

***

Calmly, John picks up the three frames lying on the floor and beings to hang them back up. His brain chants a chorus of ‘fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck’ but he ignores it in favour of examining the first photo.

The glass is a little cracked in the lower right hand corner of the picture frame but nothing has come loose, and the hook at the back remains intact so he deems it safe to hang back on the wall. A seven year old Sherlock Holmes smiles out at him from under his large pirate’s hat and John’s mouth twitches in return. The photo had been sent to them last Christmas courtesy of one Mycroft Holmes – and while Sherlock threw a hissy fit and remained silent for just shy of three days John delighted in buying an elegant frame and hanging it on the wall to Baker Street.

The second photo is a candid from Lestrade’s birthday party. It had been quite an affair, half of Scotland Yard turning up in suits and fancy dresses just so the birthday boy himself could wear jeans and a hoodie and not be looked down on by anyone due to the fact it was _his_ special day. Apparently Greg wasn’t too fond of fancy occasions or the pompousness that ensued. In the photo Sherlock and John are sat together, Sherlock with his arm draped casually over the back of John’s chair and John’s hand clearly resting on Sherlock’s thigh. A speech is being made and John is listening intently but Sherlock, unsurprisingly, isn’t. The photo has caught him in a rare and wonderful moment of vulnerability, staring at John with such adoration in his eyes most who didn’t know him the way John did thought the photo was posed, or perhaps even photo-shopped. John runs his thumb along a crack that’s formed in the glass, effectively separating the two men, and sighs. He places the photo and frame on the coffee table and makes a mental note to pop into Tesco in search of a replacement later.

The third photo isn’t the photo John was expecting.

The third photo had been – up until whenever a certain consulting detective decided the change it – a photo of John dressed in his army uniform and standing by a pile of bags shortly after his passing out ceremony. Harry had surprised him by turning up and insisted on taking thousands of photos (least he perish overseas). John always hated the photo but since he’d chosen the pirate photo, and both men had been fond of the party photo, it only seemed fair to allow Sherlock to pick one. And, for some reason, he’d liked that one.

Now, he apparently liked another one more. The photo was a black and white ultrasound print-out. In fact, judging by the poor quality of the image and the tiny little bean of a baby visible, it was the very first ultrasound photo. Taken weeks back before shit had hit the fan and the baby had stopped being viewed as that in John’s eyes but instead as a parasite sucking the life out of his one true love.

Not a single crack graced the glass of the photo frame housing his child and John screamed, hurling it at the opposite wall and taking great pleasure in the loud crash it made.

***

The case is an interesting one; one man found hanged in the back of his own campervan – a campervan which had, much to the befuddlement of Scotland Yard, been found parked in the middle of the M25. Several witnesses had been interviewed and reported that not a soul had entered or left the van in the ten minutes between it stopping and services turning up to move it along, yet the fact he is the third man this week to have been found alone and dead in a parked camper van around London does cause the police to raise a few eyebrows.

Sherlock’s brain is whirring before they even make it to the crime scene, he doesn’t respond to Greg’s questions and comments after he’s received all the information he needs and the rest of the journey is in silence.

It’s when Sherlock receives a heads-up that they’re two minutes away from the crime scene that he realises something. Something that, really, he shouldn’t ever have forgotten. He rubs a hand over his stomach and takes a deep breath, “Who’s – ah – who’s at the scene?”

Lestrade turns in surprise to hear not only Sherlock talking again, but to hear him talking with anything less than a self-assured cocky tone. “The usual lot,” he frowns and indicates left as the car pulls to a stop, “Why?”

Sherlock’s hand stops moving and forms a fist on top of his stomach. Lestrade’s lips form a silent ‘oh’.

“Is this about them giving you stick? I can have a word with them if you want, I certainly won’t stand for them being any worse than usual on account of your…” he nodded to Sherlock’s bump, “You know.”

“Maybe I should just work from home on this one.”

Lestrade sighs and folds his arms, “Sherlock Holmes; you know better than I do that your work rate is dramatically increased if you’re allowed to access the actual scene of the crime. Given this is the third murder _this week_ I’m not massively anxious to have results delayed. Sure, you can solve it from home, but how many people have to die before you do? Not to mention the fact they’ll be dying because you’re worried what a few idiots might say about your condition.”

Sherlock shuffles in his seat before releasing the belt and once again trying to pull his coat tighter, “I’m telling Donovan and Anderson you called them idiots.”

***

Perhaps throwing a picture of his unborn child at the wall and then grinning had been a bit not good.

Perhaps laughing at Sherlock and effectively telling him he owns him hadn’t been the best idea.

Perhaps allowing Sherlock to run off to a crime scene God-knows-where while wearing pyjamas and carrying a child (as well as a grudge) had been the worst idea of all time.

John abandons all ideas of cleaning up after himself and sprints downstairs, barefooted and still in his own pyjamas. He hops into the first cab that takes him and reads out the location as soon as he receives it from Lestrade.

***

Sherlock’s eyes absorb the scene around him and he files away data for inspection. He’s got several ideas but the more he sees the more one idea becomes illuminated.

The campervan had no one enter or exit it from the time Albert Smith, the victim, packed up to start his journey this morning to the time the police officers forced the back door open to investigate the ghost car abandoned on the motor way.

So, if another person was with him they snuck in that morning unnoticed and snuck out the same way with the arrival of the police.

The police, probably two in uniform: Enough to inspect an abandoned vehicle but not enough to hold off angry drivers surrounding them, as well as to then ward off witnesses and deal with a dead body. In the madness anyone could have snuck out and gone unnoticed by the two.

But unnoticed by the public?

The pieces slip into place and Sherlock turns to find Lestrade, who stands barely an inch away from him for some reason.

“The men that found him, what did you say their names were?”

Lestrade looks blank for a moment, his gaze having been torn away from something entirely irrelevant. “..Men?”

Sherlock huffs in irritation, “The policemen! Think, you told me there names at some point.”

“Oh.. Bill and Sam?”

Sherlock bit his tongue at the unprofessional attitude and nodded, “Yes, right, good, so there were two of them?”

“Uhuh…”

“And then of course there’s your team, fifteen people – sixteen if you include yourself. I know all their faces. No one new has been added in the past few weeks?”

Lestrade scowls, “No,”

“Bill and Sam, point them out for me.”

The DI looks uncomfortable as he points out two very stressed looking policemen. Sherlock nods and then points to another stood by Anderson (the idiot).

“Then that’s your murderer.”

***

The case wasn’t as challenging as Sherlock had hoped, a simple case of someone taking advantage of an unusual situation and a well trusted uniform.  Already his mind is back at Baker Street where it seems he’ll be spending the day holed up in his bedroom either playing violin or sleeping. He stands by Lestrade’s car, disinterestedly watching the scene as forensics tidy up and one fake police officer is pushed into a marked car. He barely registers the footsteps approaching him until it’s too late.

“And it looks like the Freak has finally lost it!” Anderson’s voice is far too cheerful and Sherlock slowly looks up to find him with an arm around Donovan. That would explain the good mood, then. “Wearing pyjamas to a crime scene? I never thought casual Friday was your thing.”

Donovan snorts and her eyes slowly roam Sherlock’s figure, before she quirks an eyebrow, “I’d say he doesn’t have much choice,” a cruel finger points at Sherlock’s round belly and before he can say anything it bounces off of it, the owner making a small ‘oooh’ sound at the firmness. “That doctor friend of yours been fattening you up has he? Got a right beer belly on you now, Freak.”

Sherlock clears his throat and glances around for Lestrade. Something about Donovan poking his child is just too much for him, not to mention incredibly disarming, he doubts he’d be able to handle it on a _good_ day, and today being a day without John certainly means it isn’t one of them.. His voice is quieter than he’d want, and a lot wobblier than necessary when he retorts, “Shut up, Donovan. At least I’m smart enough to find a partner with more than two brain cells to rub together.”

“Oooh, finally admitting we’re together now are we?” Donovan giggles and then gasps dramatically, “Or, or by partner did you mean the one you’ve so clearly eaten”?

Sherlock hisses and folds his arms across his chest, but that doesn’t stop Anderson from faking a look of horror and prodding him several times. “Dear God that’s firm! It’s like you’ve swallowed a cat whole or something!”

Sherlock’s eyes fall shut and he tries to will away (irrational) fears about how his child might be affected by such harsh poking. He doesn’t succeed and a few tears even threaten to fall as he imagines loosing such a precious present from John.

“What the hell do you two think you’re doing?”

Sherlock’s intake of breath is heard by everyone and he opens his eyes to miserably stare at Lestrade. Lestrade sighs and then glares at Donovan, “Surely, Sally, you should know better than to aggravate an already distressed pregnant man? I might expect this kind of bull from Anderson but with a child of your own…” he waves his hands; Donovan doesn’t look the least bit fussed.

“Pregnant?” She raises an eyebrow in Sherlock’s direction, “Who the hell would let the Freak have a child?”

Sherlock is fairly certain his breathing rate is dramatically higher than recommended.

“Donovan!” The DI watches Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes and can’t help but notice the man’s trembling hands clenching and unclenching. The consultant’s eyes glitter and he chews hard on his bottom lip.

“I’m serious!” She crosses her arms, unaware of the wreck Sherlock is becoming. “Who would ever think _he_ could have a child? He’ll probably kill it before it’s born due to some weird-o experiment or something!”

Sherlock crashes to the floor sobbing just as a cab pulls up at the crime scene. All three yarders stare at him dumbfounded while John Watson jumps out a cab, throws money at the driver, and runs over to where his partner sits.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock takes in a loud shaky breath at the sound of John’s voice and hides his face from view. His words come out as a sudden torrent.

“She’s right, John. I’m going to kill our baby and we’ll have to live in Baker Street forever, all alone, and you’ll pretend it’s fine and tell me you’ve forgiven me but you won’t have, you won’t be able to because you’ll look at me and you’ll know it’s my fault and we’ll have those little pictures of what it could have been and the doctors will just shake their heads and tell us that they’re sorry and that they did warn us but we won’t be able to do anything and it won’t help and we’ll be so alone and you’ll hate me so much and-”

Two firm hands dig into Sherlock’s armpits and pull him into a standing position before two strong arms wrap around him tightly. He falls limply against John and gasps for breath, “I thought I could do it, John. I thought I could do it but then... then the bloody _doctors_ and I can’t. I can’t do it. I thought I could but I can’t.”

John presses a firm kiss to his lips to shut him up and Sherlock stops abruptly. The doctor forces a smile and pushes a stray hair back behind the detective’s ear.

“We’re going to go home, love. I’m going to fix you a cup of that decaf tea you hate so much and then we’re going to talk because this,” he gestures feebly to show ‘this’ meant their current situation, “Is what happens when we don’t talk for three weeks.”

Sherlock sniffs and nods, “You should probably talk to Lestrade, too.”

John smiles grimly then turns to Lestrade, “Yeah, I… Ah, I’m sorry about earlier. You just... caught me off guard. If you gave us a lift home that’d be great.” Sherlock clears his throat feebly and John sighs, “And, I suppose, we do need to talk to you.”

***

Lestrade sits in the arm chair opposite the sofa where John and Sherlock rest, Sherlock’s arms tightly wrapped around John’s middle and his head resting in John’s lap. John’s fingers absent mindedly card through Sherlock’s curls as he recites the facts the doctor delivered to them three weeks ago. Greg looks like he might throw up.

“They told you to have an abortion?”

His voice sounds raw and his eyes are fixed on Sherlock’s, who, while still looking distressed, looks a lot calmer now.  Sherlock nods and then licks his lips, “They… they told me their main concern was keeping me alive, not some unborn child. It was like they didn’t understand how… how important… it... they…”

Sherlock’s eyes fall shut again and his nose scrunches as he buries his face in John’s lap.

John decides it’s his turn to explain.

“The doctor’s priority, much like mine, was with keeping Sherlock alive and safe. For Sherlock, however, giving up on this child was not an option. That still remains the case however…” He glances at Sherlock and winces internally, “With Sherlock’s reluctance to take on cases lately, and with you being away making that easy enough, he’s been reading. About his condition. And it would seem that while I’ve been... distracted by my own worries and fears that he might expire before my very eyes he’s been developing more and more of his own relating to the likelihood of this child not.. not making it.”

John’s hand drops from Sherlock’s hair and he watches a spot just behind Lestrade’s shoulder, “Your arrival and your… statement about him not being about to die set me off. Sherlock stormed out, already upset with me, and was then forced to put up with whatever Donovan said to him – which doesn’t seem to have been terribly nice. All his fears kind of collided, and led to that display at the crime scene.”

Sherlock scoffs and mumbles something derisive into John’s leg, which both older men ignore. The DI nods and rubs a hand over his face.

“So, basically you’re petrified of losing Sherlock to the point where you become overbearing and possessive – while Sherlock is petrified of losing your child to the point where he becomes a shivering whimpering wreck?”

Sherlock is the first to reply with a sardonic, “Thank you for close captioning our pain, detective inspector.”

Lestrade snorts and stands up, “At least you’re talking now.”

Both of the sofa occupants look to each other and a hesitant smile meets a fond one, “I suppose,” Sherlock murmurs.

Lestrade pats John’s shoulder and heads for the door.

“Wait,” John turns and he frowns, “Where are you going?”

Greg blinks and looks at the door as if it’ll give him the answer, “I have a case to close up, and a lot of paperwork to fill in… Ah,” he runs a hand across the back of his neck, “Unless you wanted me to stay?” silently he nods his head at Sherlock, who’s still snuggled up against John with his eyes shut.

John’s hand returns to rushing through Sherlock’s curls and he pulls a face, “But, ah, are you all right? I know… I know it’s quite a bit to take in.”

“What? Sherlock’s possible death?”

John blanches and Lestrade rolls his eyes and grins, “I know you two, John. You’ll be fine, whatever the bloody odds.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your continuing patience - you may notice there are now a set number of chapters!


	4. Miss You When You're Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The main purpose of this chapter is to set up the next one - because of that it might seem a little bland and unfinished. 
> 
> I had the choice between posting it now with possible typo's or posting it in two weeks without any - I thought you guys might appreciate a really quick update? :c
> 
> Also, can I just say the support I'm getting for this fic it mental and lovely and I can't think of any more suitable adjectives but I promise I'll try for next time. You're all wonderful!

“Without a struggle, there can be no progress.” – Frederick Douglass.

***

“This must be kept top secret, brother. John can’t find out.”

Mycroft’s lips twist and he briefly considers arguing, before instead nodding and taking the papers his brother is shoving at his stomach. His eyes fall to the boy (the _man_ ) standing opposite him and every nerve in his body starts to worry when he sees his protruding stomach. How he wishes this was something he could just arrange conveniently into a little file and never have to think about again.

Sherlock clears his throat and puts his hands on his hips, “Mycroft,” if he’s aiming to sound frightening the 32 week pregnant belly attached to his front rather destroys the image, “Is it done?” 

Mycroft closes his eyes and tries to picture a world without Sherlock in it. A childhood where he didn’t have to grow up so fast and look after his baby brother; an adulthood where he could actually work all day rather than worry. It all sounds terribly dark.

He opens his eyes and looks at his younger brother. He nods and clears his own throat.

“Of course.”

***

Sherlock wakes up alone in bed and takes a moment to frown angrily at the empty space where John should be. Slowly, he heaves himself out of bed and rubs a hand over his back – he’s recently had quite a growth spurt and his back (as well as his balance) is struggling to keep up.

Staggering slightly, Sherlock makes his way to the kitchen where John is puttering about, busying himself with tea and toast.

Sherlock’s arms wrap around John from behind and he rests his head on John’s shoulder. He hums a contented ‘mmm’ since his brain is still lying in bed and nestled in under the covers.

John chuckles and pulls away from Sherlock a little, “I think you’re becoming a bit too gravid for hugs from behind now,”

Sherlock’s nose scrunches up and he shakes his head, “Words.”

John grins and turns around, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s shoulder and taking a great amount of pleasure in just how delightfully _cosy_ he looks. He resists the urge to stand on his tiptoes and lick Sherlock’s nose and instead runs a hand down Sherlock’s growing belly. “How’s the little one today?”

“Quieter,” Smiles Sherlock, a strand of hair falling down in front of his face, “Less shifting and kicking.”

John giggles and decides pecking a kiss on the end of Sherlock’s nose is acceptable. “You sure seemed happy in that bed.”

Sherlock’s mind softly reminds him why exactly he ventured into the kitchen in the first place and he hums again, “Ah, yes.” He presses a kiss into John’s hair and smiles at the scent of John’s shampoo. “I’d have been happier if you were there.”

John snorts and turns back to what he had been doing, “I thought you might want tea.”

Sherlock sighs, “I want _you_.”

John’s attention is back to him and he quirks an eyebrow.

“Not like that.”

John blinks and Sherlock pouts.

“You. Bed. Now.” He smiles and runs one hand through his hair while the other strokes his belly, “Cuddles.”

Purely because John hadn’t ever thought he’d hear Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, say the word ‘cuddles’, the two make their way back to the bed and fall asleep in a mutual embrace.

***

Mycroft has never been one to cry, but he’s fairly certain if he was then right now he’d be a sobbing wreck. Instead, he lets his head fall into his hands while the endless papers his brother handed him a few hours ago lie on his table in the Diogenes Club. Sherlock’s scrawl and Arial Bold jumble together across pages and pages of information Mycroft never wanted to come across. As a child he’d claimed he wanted to know ‘everything and everyone in the world’; now he knew that wasn’t true.

***

John wakes up before Sherlock again (at 24 weeks Sherlock had experienced his 22 week growth spurt and today happened to be the first day without growing pains) but since he’s well and truly entangled, not to mention the fact he has absolutely no desire to move, he stays where he is.

Sherlock’s long legs are wrapped around John’s and while one hand rests on his stomach the other is draped over John’s shoulder. John’s arms are wrapped around Sherlock’s middle and he shuffles in closer until he can rest his head besides Sherlock’s neck. The pregnant man, equal parts asleep and awake, hums happily at the proximity and John smiles. He could lie like this for days.

Over the past four weeks things haven’t been perfect, but they’ve sure as hell been a lot better than the three weeks before. The two had been able to actually _talk_ to each other, and having Greg in on the terrible secret made it a bit easier if things in 221B got too much. Sherlock’s pregnancy has progressed relatively simply, with aches and pains that were to be expected and mood swings that are apparently designed to give John whiplash. Sherlock’s still being overly cautious and incredibly paranoid about the life of his child, refusing to lift a finger unless absolutely necessary and screaming at anyone who touches his belly in any way other than either incredibly cautiously or gently; preferably, both.

Sherlock stirs a little a murmurs something incoherent. John feels his love for the man lying beside him form a happy bubble in the base of his throat and start to rise in the form of a childish and inexcusable giggle.

Somehow Sherlock manages a glare despite the fact his eyes are closed and his mouth is turned upwards in a serene smile. “Whyareyoulaughingatme?”

John continues to laugh and he tries to hide his face in his pillow, “I’m not laughing at you.”

Sherlock grunts and rolls over, forcing himself closer to John, “’Course not.”

John chortles some form of agreement and presses light kisses up and down Sherlock’s neck because it’s there and because he _can_. Sherlock’s smile should have cities named after it and his sigh sounds like a breeze on a summers day.

“John?”

John makes an inquisitive noise while continuing to try and cover every single spot on Sherlock’s glorious neck with light kisses.

“Where’s my tea?”

***

Mycroft Holmes knows a lot.

He knows the papers littering his desk have a great deal to do with what happened seven weeks ago.

He knows his little brother has spent the seven weeks since the event preparing the papers for today and will spend every day until either his or his child’s death adjusting them.

He knows he can’t keep his promise; John Watson needs to be told.

***

John returns to the bedroom with a mug in each hand, he’s humming a Christmas song despite the fact Christmas is nowhere near. He admires the dark unruly curls of his love and sets a mug down on Sherlock’s side of the bed.

If the covers hadn’t been bunched up around Sherlock’s feet he wouldn’t have noticed at all.

“Sherlock?”

The detective grunts and rolls over, looking pleased when he notices the tea. He reaches for it and is halfway to taking a sip when he catches John’s face and freezes, “What?”

“Have you hurt yourself? Cut your leg, or back, or something?”

Sherlock’s skin starts to prickle and he shakes his head, afraid to tear his gaze away from John’s face. “Why?”

John’s blood runs cold and for a moment everything in the world freezes. “Because you’re bleeding.”

Sherlock pulls in a sharp breath and everything restarts itself with a crash.

***

Mycroft demands Anthea (actually Cassandra today) set him up a phone call. Moments later he accepts a phone and listens to the dialling and ringing of John Watson’s mobile.

Just as he begins to suspect no one is going to answer there’s a ‘beep’ signalling the call has been received.  He takes in a breath and beings, “Jo-”

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft silently curses himself at the sound of his brother’s voice. Of course Sherlock would be paranoid right now, well, that is to say _more_ paranoid.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft hears the disproving whine of his voice that Sherlock hates so much, “This is John’s phone. I was calling John.”

Sherlock scoffs, “Yes, well, since his child took up residence inside my womb the idea of private possessions has become rather mute. What did you want? I’m sure I can pass on a message.”

There’s a challenge in there somewhere and while you’d expect after nearly thirty years of dealing with Sherlock Mycroft would be an expert in navigating his obstacle courses, he is not. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts under the guide of a dramatic pause.

“Could you tell him I’d like to meet with him, please?”

“No.”

Mycroft lists the first five Prime Minister’s in his head before continuing, “Sherlock,”

“Why?”

Thomas Pelham-Holles, John Stuart, George Grenville. “I have something important to discuss with him.”

“Which is…?”

“Oh for-”

“You can’t tell him Mycroft,” There’s a pause on the other end of the line before Sherlock adds, “Please?”

“Sherlock,”

“Mycroft.”

The British government sighs and rubs a hand along his temple, “If it were John,” he takes in a deceptively calm breath, “If your positions were reversed and it was John preparing for his death; setting up a will and leaving behind letters, how would you feel? To know he felt so insecure and terrified of dying that he couldn’t talk to you about it, yet he still felt the need to prepare for it. How would you react if you found out that had been happening and you hadn’t _known_?”

“John knows I might die.”

“Yet he doesn’t seem to realise you do.”

***

Two hours after running down the stairs of 221 Baker Street and hailing a cab (once again, both men clad in pyjamas) Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are seated (relatively comfortably) in a private hospital room of their own. The doctor’s want to keep an eye on Sherlock for a bit after the panic of suffering a possible antepartum haemorrhage, ensuring he nor the bay become too distressed.

Much to John’s chagrin, the future father of his child seems completely nonplussed. Sherlock’s legs are spread out on the bed in front of him where he lounges on the hospital bed, wearing a gown purely because of the amount of blood on his trousers. What the doctor had mentioned almost seven weeks ago had happened, a small portion of the placenta had broken off. Unfortunately, it wasn’t large enough a segment to mean the baby’s way out of Sherlock’s body wasn’t still blocked, but luckily it also was small enough an area to ensure baby could continue to happily live inside their home for a while longer.

“Are you all right?” John asks for nearly the twelfth time in half an hour. The moment Sherlock had discovered their child was fine was the moment Sherlock had stopped worrying – he didn’t seem to care in the slightest that he might’ve died.

“Obviously.”

John nods, because of course. Of course Sherlock is perfectly fine now when barely an hour ago he’d been teetering on the edge of death with his baby ready to go down with him.

“And you’re… fine? With the hospitalisation thing?”

Sherlock sighs; it had always been a likelihood he’d have to be put on bed rest for the later part of the pregnancy. Now it was a certainty that he’d be spending what already promised to be a terribly dull time in the intellectual prison known as the hospital.

“It’s not like I get a choice, is it?”

John shifts in his plastic torture device (chair) and clear his throat, “Well, ah, no. Obviously the doctor’s will have to keep monitoring you before then so they can,”

“Confirm when I need to be admitted. I know, John. I was there when they told you.”

“Yes, yes. Of course. It’ll most likely be around the 32 week mark. Normally it’s 34, of course, but with male pregnancies that bit more risky anyway…”

Sherlock sighs again, “Right, John. I know. I know it all. Would you just stop worrying?”

John coughs a little and winces, “Yes, ah, right. Okay. You’re fine. It’s all fine.”

***

Mycroft decides a house-call is in order.

He’s more than a little surprised when John answers the door and beckons him into an empty flat.

“Mycroft,” John smiles, though as his smiles often are around the elder Holmes it’s a little forced. Mycroft nods in answering and glances around the flat, taking in the small bag waiting besides the door. Of course. How could he have forgotten? John tries his best not to look unnerved by Mycroft’s looming and walks into the kitchen to set about making tea, “Are you here for Sherlock? He’s just gone out for a walk – declared it his last true moment of freedom. I know it probably wasn’t the best idea to let him go but… Well, what can I do?”

Mycroft realises his eyes are still fixed on the holdall and he gives a minute shake of his head, following John into the kitchen and graciously accepting a tea cup. “Sherlock’s being admitted today.” It’s not a question, but John still answers him with a slightly less confident ‘yes’. Mycroft hums into his tea, “It must have slipped my mind.”

“Oh,” John’s ‘oh’ transmits two things: One, ‘oh, it must be nice for you, then, not having the prospect of the love of your life and your only child being sent to hospital for the next few weeks where the two of them might well die’; two, ‘oh, then, why the hell are you here?’.

Mycroft, despite what most people may think, doesn’t actually always enjoy keeping others in the dark. He answers John’s question, since starting an argument over who’s most terrified for Sherlock’s safety seems absurd. “Sherlock has set up a will, as well as arranged it so that on his passing one letter was to be left for your child and one,” he stuck a hand into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, “Was to be passed to you.”

John doesn’t react in the slightest, simply watching the envelope with an expression that really could mean anything.

Mycroft decides to give him some time and after a moment John huffs out a mirthless laugh, “He’s preparing for his death?” The politician raises an eyebrow and John takes a step back, “No, no, because that can’t be right. Sherlock’s entire life is one big danger after another and he’s never thought to do any of this before. Why would he be doing it now?”

Mycroft deposits the envelope and letter on the kitchen table. “My brother has always been terribly lonely, John. While I surrounded myself with associates – not friends – during my youth, he preferred to play with the bees in the back garden, or focus on his experiments. He was fine with being alone, quite accustomed to it in fact, to the point where he would be reckless. With no one around to worry for him and no one to think about should he die, he could do as he pleased. And that suited him quite well, you saw him nearly swallow that pill from Jefferson Hope.

“But, then you came along. You came along and somewhere along the way he caught on that for every bit as petrified he got for whenever he saw you nearly die, you felt the same about him. And he fell in love with you, Doctor Watson, and realised that the pain he went through when he saw you with a red dot hovering over your heart was not a pain he cared to put you through. He told himself he would not die, since you having to live without him would be like him having to live without you.

“And then this child came along. This child that made you both so elated and that you both loved so dearly. And some part of Sherlock’s brain realised that, he might just die. He might die but at least, at least now he’s got this child, he has something to leave you. He realised that having to live without you would be truly terrible, but if he had your child then it would be bearable: Maybe even good. So, he’s turned reckless again, just in another way. Instead of happily running headlong into death he’s making himself welcome to it. He knows he might be about to die and he finally feels like you’d be okay without him.”

There’s a moment of silence once Mycroft stops talking, before John picks up the envelope containing his partner’s words to him from beyond the grave and starts shredding the entire document viciously.

“That’s what this is about?” he shouts at Mycroft as if it’s all Mycroft’s fault, “Just me? He’s happy to die now because he thinks _I’ll_ be fine?”

Mycroft swallows.

“I bloody told him if it came down to it I’d choose him over this child any time! And now he’s giving up on his own life because he thinks it’s the first time I’d cope without him?” John kicks a chair and shakes his head, “Ugh, it’s like he doesn’t understand this death thing works both ways. If I lose him, I lose him. But he loses me too! And not just me, all those other people I’m sure he’s so charmingly neglected to write letters for! What about Lestrade, and Molly, and, god, what about Mrs Hudson? He’s like a son to her!”

Mycroft has always been a quick thinker, but he has to admit the speed at which his next idea springs to mind astonishes even himself. “Well, it seems we’re just going to have to remind him about all the people he’ll miss – as well as all the people who’ll miss him, doesn’t it?”

The army doctor folds his arms and cocks his head at Mycroft, “How?”

Mycroft smiles a thin smile and the two sit down at the kitchen table together, John listening as the uncle of his child starts to lay out a plan.

***

“How do you do it?” John asks later, when Sherlock’s eyes have fallen shut and his head is starting to droop. The detective grunts and looks up, giving John a quizzical glare.

“You could’ve died then, Sherlock. You still could, and you don’t seem fazed by it. In fact you seem almost... relaxed. Yeah. Relaxed. You’re just... completely relaxed.”

Sherlock blinks and his eyes fall shut again, clearly having decided the conversation he and John are having is nowhere near as exciting as the prospect of sleep. John’s already certain he won’t answer when Sherlock yawns a response.

“Stressing out about it – as you seem to want me to. It won’t help the baby, will it? In fact, it’ll do quite the opposite.”

“Right, but-”

Sherlock sighs and snuggles into the bed a little further, wrapping both of his arms around his belly as if trying to hug the unborn child. “I might die, John, but if I let this child die I _know_ I will. So I’ll do my best to keep this child alive, for as long as I can.”

John chews his words for a moment, before speaking out again. “I guess I understand,” he admits to his already sleeping partner, “I suppose I’m the same with you.”


	5. It's My Party (and I'll Cry If I Want To)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off can I be super super soppy and say thank you to everyone who leaves lovely reviews and kudos! I had this one terrible week recently and then all of a sudden out of nowhere I received two simply darling reviews that made me blush and four kudos that meant the world to me! :3
> 
> Second of all, this chapter did not go to plan. I don't like it but at the same time I want to post it... The next chapter is the reason I started this whole thing in the first place, though, so let's hope it's a little less like the bike ride through treacle this one was.

“They say home is where your heart is set in stone,

Is where you go when you're alone,

Is where you go to rest your bones,

It's not just where you lay your head,

It's not just where you make your bed.” – Gabrielle Aplin.

***

Sherlock looks around the room, his vacant stare landing on a bright pink dog and dark blue cat apparently in the midst of a very serious conversation. Just behind the toys there’s a pile of books, silly things with titles like ‘Mr Widdles Goes for a Walk’ and ‘I Love You Blue Kangaroo’.

To the left there’s a pile of gifts aimed at the parents that are responsible for the child reading Mr Widdles, clear plastic bottles waiting to be sterilised and a green car seat that can be carried around the streets of London and used in tubes and cabs alike. There’s massage oil and a box of cookies, as well as a white envelope labelled ‘For Someday’ that he’s been instructed not to open: It’s two tickets for a pre-booked holiday to Switzerland.

Sherlock wonders which of them will make it to ‘someday’.

He’d hug his knees to his chest if he could, but he can’t. Instead he lets both his hands fall over his face.

***

“Coo-ee!”

John jumps up from his laptop, nearly sending both the computer and his steaming mug of tea flying across the empty living room. After a moment to recover he clears his throat and looks up to Mrs Hudson, not feeling terribly sorry for the awful forced smile he sends her way.

Sherlock went to the hospital two weeks ago and, although he sees the man every day, it’s really not the same.

“Mrs Hudson,” there are three garishly wrapped presents in her arms and a Tesco bag hanging loosely from her wrist. Her smile, though ridiculously large, is real.

Mrs Hudson tsks and bustles her way into the threshold, abandoning her goods on the completely clear coffee table and snapping John’s laptop shut for him. “No good lazing about on your own today, you know.” She picks up his mug of tea and peers at it, before handing it back to John, “You finish that off and change into something a little nicer,” the hand not clutching John’s heavy laptop waves at his jeans and tatty jumper in disproval, “And then we’ll get going. I assume you’ve already got everything else sorted?”

John’s had two whole weeks of nothing to do but organise for this day. Of course he hasn’t got everything sorted.

He nods and swallows.

Mrs Hudson, bless her soul, seems to understand. She rests a hand on John’s shoulder for the briefest of moments and looks him square in the eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on, John. But I know it’s serious and... this – today. He needs it. In fact, I’d say you do, too.”

John whispers a feeble ‘thank you’ over the lump in his throat.

Mrs Hudson hums and flits towards the door, “Oh, and I was thinking you might bring Billy?”

***

John quietly closes the door to Sherlock’s private hospital room (private thanks to Mycroft’s need to constantly meddle) and brushes imaginary lint off of his trousers. He pushes out a heavy breathe and allows himself a small pause before turning left down the corridor and making a bee-line for the lift. He pushes the small downwards arrow and only has to wait the blink of an eye before he’s stepping into an empty lift and selecting level ‘B’ for basement.

The lift door opens with a cheerful ‘ping’ and John steps out into St Barts morgue.

She isn’t hard to spot – there’s a loud crash down the hall as two lever-arch folders that haven’t been properly closed drop to the floor. John quickly rushes down the corridor, following the sound and letting himself into a lab housing one Molly Hooper and enough papers to outline the basics of the American Constitution. Molly’s hair is falling over her face as she aimlessly grabs at files and John quickly takes pity on her, bending down despite the groan of protest his leg gives. “Here, let me.”

Molly seems to debate arguing for a moment before instead bouncing into a standing position, pulling her hair back into its messy ponytail. She pushes a third folder further towards the middle of the desk and presses a hand down on it as if it might help, “Thanks,” She pulls a face and mutters something about ‘bloody folders’ under her breath before looking back to John in apparent surprise, “John? What are you – does Sherlock want something?”

John slips the last sheet of paper back into its folder and stands up unsteadily, “Ah, no, actually. I was hoping I could grab you for a chat? If you aren’t busy?”

Molly blinks, reading John’s face silently and quickly in a way that’s not all that dissimilar to Sherlock. She wrings her hands and turns to the wall behind her as if there’s a large sign dictating the answers to her on it.

“If you give me ten minutes, sure,” her eyebrows rise and she lurches forward to snatch the folders out of John’s hands, depositing them both back on the desk with a loud _thump_.

John nods and debates offering to help before shrugging it off and turning back from where he came, “I’ll grab you a coffee, meet outside?”

Molly agrees distantly as she turns and makes her way further down the network of hallways and corridors.

***

Lestrade balances dangerously on a plastic hospital chair most certainly not designed to be used as a step ladder, his fingers more at home gripping a gun rather than tying intricate knots in a brightly coloured banner as he tries to attach it to the curtain rail of Sherlock’s hospital room. The moment one end is secured he jumps down and kicks the chair to the other end, jumping up and tying the other end as if speed is the key to successful interior décor.

Once the banner is tied he steps back to admire his (somewhat wonky) handiwork, closing one eye and cocking an eyebrow. “What do you think?” he turns to the other four in the room, raising his arms, “Does it look alright?”

‘Alright’ certainly isn’t the word John would use. The banner, made of five A4 printer pages stuck together, has several torn holes on each end from previous (failed) attempts to hang it up. The creator of the banner, Lestrade’s niece, clearly had high hopes for the banner if the pencil outlines covering it are any indication of what she had been intending – unicorns and frogs jumping over flowers with some words scribbled in between. Over the thick pencil one word has been written in bubble writing and filled with pink glitter: Baby. The words read in block capitals with an exclamation mark at the end, and John gets the distinct feeling Ellie (the niece) hadn’t been entirely sure what she was supposed to be doing when she initially set about her task.

John shrugs and turns to Molly and Mrs Hudson, who both look rather shell-shocked.

“It’s straight.” He says, which isn’t exactly a lie.

***

John stares down at his pint, meeting the reflection of his eyes and hating himself a little more for it, before lifting up the glass and to take a sip. He hears more than sees Greg sit down next to him and he waves at the bartender to get his companion a drink.

“Greg,” he says by way of greeting, before taking another gulp. Today has not been a day he’d like to relive, but then so have a lot of his days lately.

A pint is deposited in front of the Detective Inspector and he dips his head at the pretty woman placing it in front of him. He debates asking John what’s wrong, but the Sherlock Holmes in his head shouts ‘obvious!’ at him. He, too, takes an awkward gulp of his own drink and resists the urge to watch John the way he used to watch Sherlock.

“I just saw Molly.” John traces the edge of his glass with his index finger and closes his eyes, “Hooper. You probably know her, yeah? That Christmas party.”

Lestrade clears his throat, “Ah, right. The one dressed to the nines?”

John quirks a half smile that lasts half a minutiae. His face crumbles and he sucks in a breath a little too fast, almost choking himself. “He’s been in hospital for eight days.”

Greg doesn’t need to ask who John’s talking about, so he just stays silent. He picks up his glass and puts it down again. John still doesn’t say anything so the older man holds out a hand, “It’ll be fine,”

“He’s ready to die.”

Greg isn’t sure if the intake of breath is his or John’s but he is sure their thoughts in that moment aren’t too different. John doesn’t say anything else for a second but this time Greg’s run out of useless lies to spout.

“He wrote a will, gave it to Mycroft to sort out then packed himself off to hospital. It’s all just... this baby. Nothing but the baby. And I understand it, Greg, of course I do. But… it’s like he’s forgotten that there are people that love him, too. People that want – people that _need_ him to stay around. I have to remind him that we need him. I have to.”

Greg counts to three, lets out a breath, counts to three again, and then asks, “How?”

This bit, the explanation, John can do. This morning he told Mrs Hudson, and then it was Molly, and finally Greg. Mrs Hudson doesn’t really understand why Sherlock’s in hospital, just knows something about his pregnancy needing to be watched closely, while Molly hadn’t known a thing but decided she was going to find out if it killed her. John had been half expecting her to cry when he told her the truth but instead she had smiled a slightly wobbly smile and changed the subject to discussing gifts.

“Mycroft had this idea that we should get everyone together, surprise Sherlock – if that’s even possible – and make him realise in his own time that he… er, well that we’re not about to let him give up. I’ve arranged it with the hospital, he’s got his own private room, and I’m organising a sort of baby-shower. You’re invited, of course, and Molly, Mrs Hudson, and Mycroft. I mean, it’s not going to be anything big but, well. He’s got a scan on Friday, should keep him out of the room for about forty minutes – an hour if I beg the doctors to be idiots for him. I was going to maybe make the room a little more homely, decorate it and we could... I don’t know he might appreciate presents or something. Just, ah, not too much just for the child; maybe something that… involves the two of them.”

This time when Greg picks his glass up he drinks, and drinks, and doesn’t stop drinking till it’s empty. “What do you need me to do?”

***

No change. As usual. Baby’s as healthy as can be, though still hanging on to its life by a thread. Sherlock’s still expected to avoid as much activity as possible. Sherlock still isn’t allowed to be stressed. Sherlock still isn’t supposed to worry. Sherlock still has to sit back and let the baby continue to grow inside of him aware that at any moment it might stop growing and simply cease to exist and he’s still meant to act like that’s all perfectly fine.

The nurses’ have all been terribly cheerful today.

They’ve been so preoccupied with their winks at each other and their private jokes they’ve taken a whole fifteen minutes longer than usual to do their job.

Sherlock’s mood has never been worse.

His fingers tap out a sporadic rhythm on the arm of his wheelchair as he’s pushed down the hospital corridor. He longs to find his violin and smash it with extreme, harsh music but the instrument is in his room, and his room is all the way down a corridor he must travel in a chair pushed by someone else while listening to indecent babbling about things always seeming worse than they actually are.

He’s living a life controlled by someone else and his back aches from simply _existing_ and – to top it all off – John’s said he can’t visit today.

Just two weeks Sherlock’s been in the hospital and he’s already had enough. At this rate dying would be a whole lot more pleasant.

Sherlock’s transport comes to a sudden stop and his feet whack into the door to his room, causing the nurse to _giggle_ of all things.

On second thoughts, maybe it’s not the crash that makes her giggle.

Something glinting catches Sherlock’s eye and he follows the sparkle up, to a small golden sign on the door that reads ‘221B’. The characters look a little silly hanging from a blob of blue tack on a pristine white hospital door, but they still make something in Sherlock’s stomach twist.

A heavy sense of foreboding weighs on Sherlock as the nurse giggles again and turns the door handle, pushing him into an artificially dark room (it’s one in the afternoon).

One.

Two.

Three.

“Surprise!”

***

“A baby shower?” With the assistance of John (the giggly nurse has been banished) Sherlock awkwardly falls into his hospital bed, his free hand immediately returning to his large baby bump as soon as he’s settled. His eyes scan the room, from a sad banner reading ‘Baby!’ to several paper chains consisting of small children holding hands and standing in a line. His face scrunches in faint disgust, not sure what the purpose of such generic nonsense is, before looking back to John and staring into the man’s eyes with confusion. John’s eyebrows draw up together and he sucks his cheeks in a little in a way that makes him seem like a puffer-fish, and Sherlock sniffs. “Why would we need a baby shower?”

John’s mouth opens (more like a cat-fish, now) and he reaches out a hand to run through Sherlock’s soft curls. Sherlock could almost forget he’s wearing what is effectively a nightdress while spread out on a hospital bed with an infant attached to his belly and four other people watching if John would just kiss him and stop looking so desperately unhappy.

“You are,” The voice coming from the corner of the room is disgustingly nasal, “Ahem,” John steps out of the way and Sherlock’s gaze meets Mycroft’s, who is sat on a bright red hospital chair as if it’s the throne of England and clutching what looks like a plastic brief case in his hands, “Having a baby.”

Sherlock snorts.

“Look,” John is back in the centre of his attention and Sherlock’s nostrils flare a little, “We just thought it would be nice, is all. Just a little party, with all the people you lo- like together in one place. If you honestly don’t want all this then we can pack up and go home, it’s fine. Really.”

A sticky silence follows and Sherlock doesn’t even notice how tightly he’s gripping the bed sheets, “I… I suppose I can allow it.”

John’s face breaks into a grin and Sherlock heart sours. “Brilliant!” He jumps up onto Sherlock’s bed like a toddler on Christmas morning and swings his legs, “Mr Hudson, cake or presents first?”

***

They have cake first, coffee and walnut (Sherlock’s favourite) with icing shakily displaying the words ‘five weeks to go!’. Mrs Hudson, while still the only person unaware of why exactly Sherlock’s been scheduled to have a caesarean at 39 weeks, is not the only one to act blind to the danger Sherlock and his child is facing. After cake (and banana milkshake that John is forced to buy from the hospital canteen) presents are presented and both John and Sherlock set to making their way through a large pile.

From Lestrade there are several books, a highly inappropriate black blanket with a chalk outline of a murder  victim on it that Sherlock tries desperately not to grin at, and a collection of gender-neutral coloured onesies that make the entire room ‘awwh’ in unison. He also pushes a gift bag full of various bottles, mostly empty, towards John and jokes it’s his ‘baby survival kit’ for all couples. Everyone in the room decides to stay quiet about the massage oil.

Molly mumbles about her contribution probably being a little silly before handing Sherlock three wrapped gifts, one parcel contains a bright pink dog and dark blue cat (“So it doesn’t matter which gender it is, right?”), another contains a squishy pillow in the shape of a scientifically accurate heart (“Never too young!”) and the final parcel is a car seat (“It’s supposed to be light-weight, so, you know, you can carry it around with you and everything.”).

Mrs Hudson passes Sherlock a bag containing several wrapped jumpers fit for a small child with arms in the wrong places, socks (that Sherlock certainly does _not_ cry at) with holes in the toes, and an envelope. Intrigued, Sherlock opens the envelope to find another that simply reads ‘For Someday’. His fingers trace the opening of letter and Mrs Hudson reprimands him, snatching it away and putting it down on the floor.

Sherlock already knows what the letter contains, anyway.

Mycroft leaves his gift until the very last moment, just as Molly and Lestrade have left and Mrs Hudson is forcing a box of cookies into John’s hands. He approaches Sherlock almost hesitantly, and hands his younger brother the plastic case. Sherlock’s eyes trail down the set now in his hands and he frowns.

“A chemistry set? For a new born?”

Mycroft flashes a tight smile at Sherlock and looks out of the window, “Never hurts to plan a head now, does it?”

When Mycroft leaves Sherlock finds himself placing the set down with great care.

Later, when John has left the cookies for Sherlock and Mrs Hudson has rushed out of the hospital to beat the traffic, when all the presents have been opened and all the wrapping paper cleared away, Sherlock lets his eyes roam the room around him where just an hour ago the five most important people in the world to him stood.

And he lets his hands fall over his face.

And he sobs.


	6. Dreamland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to Anna Bagnell!
> 
> A little bit of fluff before we get down to the nitty gritty.

“They've promised that dreams can come true - but forgot to mention that nightmares are dreams, too.” – Oscar Wilde.

***

There’s a commotion in one of the private rooms down the corridor and a trainee nurse looks up at a loud crash. It takes her a moment to realise it’s the room of one consulting detective, whom she’d had the pleasure of meeting last night when he decided her bad taste in clothing warranted a verbal attack, and reluctantly she makes her way towards the room.

When she gets there, she freezes. Two senior doctors are leaning over Mr Holmes’ chart and arguing while nurses flit in and out of the room, one stopping to lower the patient’s bed and release the brakes on the wheels. In the centre of it all the pregnant man lies unconscious, his complexion paper white and the sheets around him creased from where he had (presumably) been writhing in pain.

She hears herself take in a breath and the two senior doctors looks up to her in unison, a crease formed on the forehead of the usually calm and chatty chief resident.

“Call Dr Watson,” the CR instructs, “We need to you to call Dr John Watson, _now_.”

Her shaky fingers are dialling before she even registers moving.

***

John wakes to a loud buzzing, slowly rolling over in bed, his fuzzy mind content to stay snuggled into the pillow. Blearily, he fumbles for the source of the noise along his bedside table before his clammy hand makes contact with the cool smooth surface of his touch-screen phone. He opens half an eye to look at the number and his mind immediately springs to life.

He sits up and swipes the green ‘accept call’ button; the voice on the other end starts immediately.

“Is this Mr – err – Dr Watson? It’s Nurse Lee calling from–”

John cleared his throat and swung his legs out of bed, his heart hammering in his chest and only speeding up when he read the ridiculously early hour on the alarm clock. “I know where you’re calling from. What’s going on? Is Sherlock okay?”

Heavy breathing can be heard over the phone line and for a moment John wonders if it’s some elaborately vile prank, he pulls the phone away from his ear and checks the number on the screen. The number checks out (he isn’t entirely surprised) and John waits for the nurse to catch his breath. Why is it that throughout this pregnancy he and Sherlock have always been subjected to the trainee doctors and nurses that can’t handle what’s happening? If he didn’t know any better he’d say they’re to blame for Sherlock state right now – pure incompetence causing his body to first turn against his own child, and then himself.

Of course, that’s ridiculous. It’s not the age of the nurses affecting Sherlock’s pregnancy, is it? The nurse’s speaking interrupts his thoughts.

“Mr Holmes’ condition has rather changed in the past hour. Hospital protocol requires we call you in.”

John frowns, because there’s no protocol dictating a loved one needs to be called in unless a patient is – Oh.

“He’s...” John feels like he’s floating. He can’t really be saying what he’s saying. “He’s dying, isn’t he?”

There’s a break on the other end of the phone for a minute, before the voice crackles on. “Dr Watson, we really must insist you come immediately.”

***

Slowly, Sherlock’s eyes blink open and he finds himself being pushed (quickly) down a hospital corridor while the bright lights shine down on his eyes and various members of staff chatter around him. He feels nauseous. A young nurse, the only one not occupied by phone calls or bed pushing, notices his wakeful state and quickly leans in a little closer, smiling politely. “Hey there, love. How are you feeling?”

It’s a stupid question and the way the detective curls his lip tells her just that, but before he can get out an insult a pain hits him in his middle and he grunts, squeezing his eyes shut tightly against the bright lights and the suddenly alert doctors as their eyes fix on him.

“Are they still looking?” he whispers after a moment, the nurse can’t help but smile.

“We’re just keeping an eye on you, Mr Holmes. Can you tell me what you last remember? Before you passed out?”

“I passed out?”

The blonde nurse looks up to her colleagues, but they’re all back in their own little worlds. She chews on her lip a little and nods. “We believe you were in quite a bit of pain.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock shifts as much as his position will allow, taking a short rest when the pain starts up again. The minute it finishes he relaxes and looks back up to the nurse. Her hair’s pulled back into a messy ponytail and her eyes… her eyes seem familiar. “You remind me of someone.”

“Oh?” The bed swings to the right as the team turn a corner and Sherlock flinches a little in surprise.

“Hmm,” he says again, his vocabulary somewhat limited. He closes his eyes and tries to place the woman’s face, but it simply won’t fit. After what seems like too long he sighs, “Molly Hooper. Must be. Mousey. Quiet. Bit of an idiot, when she’s not being clever.”

The woman shakes her head, unsure how exactly to take that. Just as her patient seems to be ready to drop out again she speaks up, her voice faux-cheerful. “Well, I’m Nurse Lee – but you can call me Sophie, alright love?”

“Sophie Lee,” the detective echoes, his voice that of an old man whispering his last words.

“That’s right.”

“Sophie?”

“Yes Mr Holmes?”

“Don’t let them take him.”

Sophie blinks, “I’m not sure I understand.”

Sherlock sighs as he falls back into darkness.

***

John takes the steps up to the hospital three at a time (his legs strain and his knee aches, he doesn’t care) and runs into the same ward he’s visited too many times before. The desk is manned by the night nurse, whom he’s had the misfortune of meeting twice, and it’s only as he strides towards the desk that he realises he’s not wearing any shoes.

“I’m – John, er, I – my partner. My partner Sh-Sherlock Holmes. He’s.. er.. I need to.. Sherlock Ho-”

“Dr Watson?”

A familiar voice causes John to break off his disjointed explanation and he turns quickly, nearly bashing head-first into the fresh-faced nurse standing there. “Nurse Lee – Julian Lee,” the man offers by way of explanation as he holds out a hand, “We spoke on the phone.”

John stares at the hand, then at the owner. He looks awake, but there are small bags under his eyes. His dark brown hair spikes upwards from where his hands have clearly been running through it (as a doctor himself, John can sympathise) and his scrubs have creases from where they have been (poorly) ironed. The army doctor reminds himself it is not this man’s fault Sherlock is where he is.

“Yes.”

Julian smiles politely at John’s monosyllabic answer and his eyes crinkle a little as if John is a toddler that has just said something profoundly intelligent, “Mr Holmes lost an amount of blood while sleeping earlier, however no one was alerted until he awoke to pains in his uterus. The doctor on-call ran standard checks before establishing baby was distressed enough to warrant immediate C-section. The pati- Mr Holmes fell unconscious before permission to perform such a surgery could be attained.”

“You want my permission to perform the surgery.”

Julian’s smile wavers a little, “Neither of them will benefit from being left without appropriate care.”

“What caused him to fall unconscious?”

“Well,” the junior nurse glances down at his feet and takes a breath, “It was most probably hypovolemic shock. We’ve already made every effort to stop the bleeding.”

“He’ll need a transfusion?”

“After the surgery.”

John straightens his back and pushes his chest forwards imperceptibly, “Alright. I’ll sign whatever you need me to sign.” 

***

When Sherlock wakes, the nurse is there again. The nurse with the light blonde hair and the polite smiles, the crinkles in the corners of her eyes and the sore bottom lip from where she’s frequently chewing nervously. Sherlock isn’t sure how he remembers, but her name comes to him in a moment and he stretches his mouth a little before croaking, “Sophie.”

Sophie immediately looks over from where she’s fiddling with the clear plastic jug and accompanying cup. Her pupils grow as her eyes land on the now conscious patient and her smile is even more forced than ever; her eyes flicker to several tubes feeding into Sherlock’s arms before flitting back down to the detectives face.

“Good to see you again, Mr Holmes.” She pours some water into the cup but doesn’t offer it to Sherlock, her hands curl around the cool plastic for a moment before she places it back on the table. “I’m just going to fetch the doctor, no sudden movements while I’m gone, okay?”

“John?”

The nurse raises an eyebrow before tilting her head towards the corner of the room, where Sherlock’s John sits in one of the hated plastic hospital chairs. His eyes are fixed resolutely on Sherlock’s face and he doesn’t smile as Sherlock so wishes he would. The door to his private room click quietly shut as Sophie leaves, but he doesn’t really notice.

“John?” Sherlock repeats, feeling irrationally guilty that his was not the first name he said. He presses his palms lightly either side of himself and pushes to sit up. John springs into action too late and Sherlock gasps at the (almost completely) foreign feeling of emptiness. “No,” the detective looks down and stares in horror at his deflated abdomen, “No, no, no no no no no n-”

“Sherlock, Sh- Sherlock,” A hand rests on Sherlock’s shoulder and he pulls away a little too sharply, causing the pulse monitor on his thumb to slide off and a pain to strike his body. Sherlock gasps again and alarms start bleeping away from the machine behind him, John ignores them as he wraps his arms tightly round his partner. “Hey, don’t do that. It’s fine. It’s all fine. It’s all going to be fine.” He whispers as Sherlock gives in and sags against his chest. An almost silent wail escapes Sherlock’s mouth and Johns squeezes his eyes tightly shut as a feeling of complete revulsion hits him when he realises that _he’d got his way_.

***

Three hours.

That’s how long they make him wait.

John sits in an empty waiting room for three hours, his toes tingling with cold and his back aching from the uncomfortable red chair. After just ten minutes his hair is shiny with grease and sticking up at all angles from where he’s run his hand through it so many times, after thirty he’s walked the waiting room floor so many times he’s covered the distance of a half-marathon, after sixty he’s imagined every possible outcome twice and by one hundred and eighty he’s a wreck, elbows resting on his knees as he stares blankly at a copy of ‘The Sun’ sitting on the small wooden table in the middle of the bland room.

It’s just as John is standing up to resume his sixth half-marathon the nurse walks in; the man’s badge reads ‘Julian’ and John wonders how he’d forgotten.

“Don’t any doctors work here?”

John’s voice is gruff and he sounds straight-out rude, but he can’t really find it in himself to feel even a little bit apologetic. Julian winces and bites down on his bottom lip – his chapped lip, John notes. Sherlock would’ve been proud.

“You can talk to the doctor if you prefer, however the doctors believed you might be more comfortable with me since I’m a... somewhat familiar face.”

John can think of once face he’d much rather see, but he says nothing.

“You see,” the nurse starts, his folded hands trembling a little, “It’s,” he smiles then immediately drops it, “I’ll get a doctor. I’m sorry.”

John feels dead and his arms fall limply to his sides, “You’re sorry. That’s usually a good place to start.”

Julian goes a little pale and squeezes tightly on his own fingers, “We – they – we. We did all we could.”

Darkness. John feels darkness.

“They’re dead?”

The two men lock eyes; Johns finds Julian’s are pleasantly blue-green. His dark pupils are the exact same colour as John’s gun.

“No.”

It’s Julian, not John refusing. Both seem equally as surprised.

“They’re not both – the baby was safely delivered. Mr Holmes went into postpartum haemorrhage, as feared. With the already vast amount of blood lost through the antepartum there was little that could be done… I’m so sorry.”

John’s buckle as he falls back down into the chair. The joy a usual father might feel at the birth of a child is a million miles away.

“This was his dream.” John tells Julian, “His fucking dream. And now what? He’s abandoned it? Left everything behind? Lost it? All over some dream?”

Julian has vanished, leaving behind a dark void. Literally.

Sherlock’s dream.

John’s nightmare.

The air in the room sounds as if it’s buzzing.

John scrubs a hand across his face and looks around at the swimming room.

The swimming room?

That’s not right.

John scrubs a hand over his face again, and this time when he blinks his eyes open he sees the peeling ceiling of the bedroom he shares with Sherlock Holmes.

To his left, his phone buzzes.

It must’ve woken him up.

Blearily, he grabs for his phone and swipes at the green ‘accept call’ button.

It’s the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me?
> 
> Thank you to everyone still reading, be you a silent lurker or a fabulously verbose commentator. You're all marvelous.
> 
> If you find any details with fact please note that I'm currently attending school where I study engineering; there's only so much I can find on the internet in my spare time.


	7. And Now Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soRRY THIS TOOK AGES.
> 
> Thank you for your continuing support; final chapter will be uploaded tomorrow (holy cow!) and with it will be a very fluffy note from me because I love you all :3
> 
> Feel free to point out any blaring mistakes.
> 
> (EDIT: Just going to clarify I don't own certain lines in this and that no copyright is intended :c )

“Everything has it’s time and everything ends.” – Doctor Who.

***

When John arrives at the hospital he gets out of the car and resists the urge to run across the road into the building, instead taking the time to look up at the old hospital standing in front of him. He remembers the first time he saw it; how young he’d been back then with a leather satchel full of books and a student ID card. The first time he’d walked into the building he hadn’t given it a second glance, too busy chatting away with Mike while trying to subtly come across as the charming prince all the girls should want to marry. He’d blindly followed the crowd as they marched down the steps to the labs, he’d not batted an eyelid as the nurses and doctors of the time had quirked an eyebrow at his still so childish antics. Little did he know what this hospital would become to him; little did he know that one day he’d walk down those same steps with that same friend, and that there he’d meet the love of his life. Little did he know how many hours he’d spend staring at the plain walls as he waited for that same idiot to finish analysing the dirt on another man’s shoe, or a woman’s handbag, or – on one memorable occasion – a particular feminine hygiene product Sherlock had been revolted to discover. He’d certainly never have predicted that one day he’d jump out of a cab on the opposite side of the road, just as he does now, glance up at the building’s tall and grimy walls, and see his best friend in the world standing on top of it with his melodramatic coat bellowing in the wind.

The memory makes John shake a little, suddenly feeling slightly queasy. He pushes out a (not-so) steady breath and straightens his back, brushing invisible lint off of his jacket.

_No_ , he thinks to himself, _Sherlock Holmes has already died once at this bloody hospital._

_That’s enough_.

***

“Is that it?” a much more broken man than John is today asks. A raven haired wild thing of a person looks up and grins, is that what? He asks. As if it’s perfectly normal to meet someone and instantaneously set up a flat share. John points this out and Sherlock looks almost bored.

After a long list of really rather insulting and far too invasive deductions are hurled at John, the detective spins out of the room. A beat later, he swoops back in and his baritone declares “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street.” He pauses for a minutiae and adds a cheeky “Afternoon.” Before winking, smirking, and vanishing.

In hindsight, it was probably somewhere in this fast-paced obnoxious dialogue that John fell in love with the idiotic genius.

***

John tries to keep his pace at a controlled walk as he travels down the corridor to the all-too-familiar private room. His hand hovers over the white paint for a moment as he debates knocking, before he snorts and instead flattens his palm over the cool wood. He sucks in a breath again, and then forces a smile as he’s seen Sherlock do so many times. The door creaks ever so slightly as he lets himself in and his cheeks scream a little as he bares his teeth at Sherlock.

Sherlock; god. The sight of him breaks John’s heart. His skin is slightly greyish, his eyes seem almost sunken in, and his normally fluffy and exuberant hair is stuck to his forehead in unattractive clumps: Then there’s the bump. The thirty eight and a half week large mass of child, slowly draining all the life out of his partner; John’s immeasurably grateful there are only three days to go before the caesarean.

“That’s rather terrifying,” Sherlock mumbles into a half-hearted yawn, and at John’s confused expression he sighs, “The eyes, and the teeth. You look like a madman about to tear my throat out with your perfectly formed incisors.”

The army doctor blinks, and then moves to sit in the chair besides Sherlock’s bed. He’s fairly certain his bum print is permanently one with the chair given how often he’s sat in it over the past few weeks. “Well, you said my incisors are ‘perfectly formed’ so I’m going to pretend that was a compliment.” John chews his lips nervously and sinks back into his elbows, “You… er, you were asking for me?”

The younger man huffs a snort and closes his eyes, “Mhm.”

John frowns and brushes a sweaty curl away from Sherlock’s face, “Normally you just send me a whiney text,” he pauses his hand for a moment, wondering if he’s imagining the extra heat emitting from the man, “What’s different today?”

A beat springs by, then Sherlock opens his eyes wide. “I want pudding.” He says.

“What?”

The man quirks an eyebrow, “You heard.” He lifts a hand, and hopes the slight wince is invisible, “Get on it, Captain.”

***

The first time John notices, really actually observes, that Sherlock might have more than platonic feelings for him is at Baskerville. The army doctor salutes, and Sherlock’s face morphs through several out of place emotions before finally settling on a faux-casual and somewhat bemused smirk, “Nice touch.” He intones, and John is left wondering if he imagined the man’s voice dropping a register.

“I haven’t pulled rank in ages.” He informs Sherlock, and when Sherlock stares ahead in an effort to maintain his composure and asks if he’d enjoyed it he takes an enormous amount of pleasure in humming the affirmative.

John likes to believe the subsequent attempted drugging and thoughtless locking in a (potentially dangerous) secret research facility was Sherlock’s attempt to throw him off of the scent.

(It failed.)

***

“Mr Watson?”

John turns to the voice just behind him, deciding to let the ‘Mr’ slide just this once. A nervous looking junior doctor stands by the reception desk, looking as if he’d like to be absorbed by the wall very much right now. The sandy haired man taps a staccato beat on the two pots of butterscotch mousse in his hands and smiles, “Yes?”

“Could I grab you for a moment, er, sir?”

The older doctor sighs and gestures for the young man to go on.

“It’s Mr Holmes,” the man fiddles with the hem of his scrubs and stares down at the floor, “He hasn’t allowed any of the doctors to check on him... to, er, check his stats and what-not since last night. Apparently he demanded you come in and, well, the senior doctors were rather hoping you’d let him let _us_ in. It’s really in his, and the baby’s, best interest.”

John’s face falls and he turns on his heel, marching straight to Sherlock’s door regardless of the junior doctor continuing to rant behind him.

***

“This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note...”

John Watson looks up to the man, to his life, to his future, as it stands precariously on the edge of St Bartholomew’s Hospital. His heart pounds and the urge to squeeze his eyes shut and block everything out is overwhelming. He keeps his eyes fixed on Sherlock.

“Leave a note when?”

There’s a pause, and Sherlock’s breath is almost tangible as it shakes and croaks through the line. Bile builds up in John’s throat; and then it happens.

“Goodbye, John.” He says.

Goodbye.

***

Sherlock’s eyes are squeezed shut and his skin, normally so pale and earlier so grey, is almost green and it shines with sweat. A sound quieter than a whisper but at the same time deafeningly loud escapes his throat and John wonders if he’s ever going to forget the sound of Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock, quietly whimpering in pain when he thinks no one else is looking. John lets the door close quietly behind him and at the clunk it makes Sherlock forces his eyes open. Glassy puddles stare out at John.

“You should have told me,”

“Didn’t,” the detective sighs and shifts ever so slightly, “Want to,” he pulls in a small breath, “Worry, worry you.”

John wraps a hand around Sherlock’s, allowing two fingers to search for his pulse. It’s weak but elevated; the doctor in him helpfully jumps up with various prognosis’s’. “I worry for a reason, love.”

“I feel ill.” Sherlock whispers, he’s still pulling in frequent breaths as if he’s starved of oxygen but frightened of filling his lungs too much.

“Is that all?”

Sherlock takes a moment, his thin lips pressing together, before he closes his eyes and gives an infinitesimal shake of his head, “Hurts.”

John leans forward, trying to keep his panic hidden deep inside a box labelled ‘things that won’t help right now’. It pushes and squeezes, determined to break out. “You should have told a doctor, Sherlock.”

“My doctor,” Sherlock smiles sleepily, “You. My doctor.”

John’s eyes roam Sherlock’s face, as if searching for an answer. Finally, he stands, keeping his hand in Sherlock’s for now. “I’m going to get a doctor, alright? I’ll be right back.”

“Back?” a yawning Sherlock echoes, his head turning to snuggle down into the pillow.

“Uhuh. In just a minute.”

Sherlock smiles, “See you later, then.”

“Right.”

As John turn to leave Sherlock’s eyes flicker open in a moment of clarity and he stares up at the ceiling, “John? Promise?”

The doctor’s eyes lock onto the patient’s; fear is all he can see. “I promise, Sherlock. I promise. Later.”

As John runs out to find a doctor Sherlock falls head-first into a lonely land of warmth and darkness.

***

“You utter pillock!”

Sherlock staggers back a little, as if the words were solid. He clings to the doorframe for support and John, undeterred, approaches him with a look so fierce it’s be fitting for steam to be coming from his ears. Red hot doesn’t even cover it. “You complete, utter, _fucking_ , bastard! I can’t believe you! I thought you were _dead_! Does that not mean _a fucking thing_ to you? Do _I_ not mean a thing to you? You twat!”

The final insult is punctuated with a fist in the face.

Sherlock crashes to the floor in an inelegant pile of coat and man, small spluttering’s of disagreement coming from his mouth. John bends down to his level, stares at the man, opens his mouth, and then shuts it firmly.

When they kiss it’s like a car crash.

A brilliant car crash.

***

 Doctors and nurses alike filter into Sherlock’s room the moment he finds someone to babble ‘suspected hypovolemic shock’ at. The shock is easily confirmed, the haemorrhage Sherlock (the idiot) had decided to keep to himself spills out onto the hospital bed and leads to a certain British government being contacted as the blatant need for a transfusion lies before everyone in the room.

The placenta, as expected since day one, has become abrupt. An emergency C-section is required, which doesn’t shock the army doctor.  The odds of both Sherlock _and_ the baby dying, does.

John had always seen the whole situation as some sort of fight to the death between Sherlock and his unborn child. He’d never really imagined that he might lose both.

***

“I want a baby.”

Sherlock’s lying in his usual spot, his fingers lightly dancing over his flat stomach as he watches John through owlish eyes. “Can you imagine? A little one with my terrible hair,”

“Which I love.” John interjects, his attention still focused on the computer for now.

“And your perfect eyes. And nose. I want them to have your nose.” Sherlock sighs and stretches out like a cat, “Don’t you think? A little bit of you and a little bit of me? All in one person? Imagine. They’d be a genius. Amazing.”

The doctor smiles and, after pressing ‘save’, moves away from his place at the desk. He knocks Sherlock’s feet onto the floor and sits in the small space they create, “I don’t understand what your thing is with my nose.”

Sherlock smiles and shits round until he’s able to rest his head on John’s shoulder, the other half of his body still parallel with the sofa cushions. John always knew he’d cuddle like a boa constrictor. “It’s you,” Sherlock murmurs, smiling before reaching up to peck a light kiss on the edge of John’s nose. “I love everything about you.”

“It’s not a terribly conspicuous nose.”

Sherlock sighs a contented sigh and rubs his curls under John’s chin, “Imagine, John!”

John lifts his hand, taking the hint, and rubs small circles into Sherlock’s scalp. “A child? Really? Never had you down as the type.”

Sherlock’s snort is the only answer he receives.

“I suppose it would be pretty nice.”

Sherlock sits up straight and grins, “It could be like an experiment! A life-long experiment! Mrs Hudson would never throw it out, would she?”

John frowns, “A child isn’t exactly a kangaroo ear in the microwave, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

Sherlock scoffs and skips away to the kitchen, leaving John behind to try and determine how much of Sherlock foolishness is genuine and how much is him acting as if his want isn’t as great as it is.

Six weeks later, John comes to a decision. He leans towards Sherlock, who is distractedly watching a young boy attempt to climb the steps to a slide while his mother gently offers encouragement, and whispers in his ear a playful, “Alright, then.”

When Sherlock turns to him, looking confused, he smiles and reaches out to tap Sherlock’s middle. The man’s eyes widen and John’s smile becomes a grin, “We’ll have a baby.”

***

Today, he could lose both.

John stares down at the operation room through a large glass window. There’s a lot of blood, which the surgeon in him calmly claims is normal but the boyfriend (and father?) screams is wrong. All wrong. Behind him a door opens, and a glance at the reflection in the glass reveals that one Mycroft Holmes is standing behind him in dress trousers, as usual, but with only a plain shirt on top. His sleeves are rolled up and his hair looks a little worse for wear.

John considers turning around.

He doesn’t.

Moments later two more join them in the observation room, a stoic Molly Hooper looking as untidy as she always does with an arm wrapped around a terrified looking Mrs Hudson. Molly moves to the furthest corner of the room, away from the glass, and Mrs Hudson pauses for a moment before standing just in front.  The four silent companions all watch slightly different things, all handling the current situation in very different ways, but their thoughts are all incredibly similar.

Today, they might lose both.

The door swings open suddenly, creating enough of a racket to cause all of the rooms occupants to look up. Mycroft flinches as Greg Lestrade bursts in, his hair sticking up as usual but his face a dangerous shade of red. “What the fu-”

His eyes hit the glass and he visibly pales, stepping back until his shoulder hits the wall. He looks to John, and then Mycroft, and then finally to the floor. The politician hesitantly reaches out a hand, which the DI takes after the briefest of seconds.

Mrs Hudson seems to gather up the courage to move unsupported by Molly and joins John, wrapping an arm tightly around his shoulder. It causes an old wound to wake up and tingle with fresh pain, but John doesn’t mind.

He doesn’t even mind when, later, Mycroft shuffles close enough for their shoulders to brush.

If anything, he might even say it’s comforting to be surrounded by family.

***

Sherlock’s eyes are closed as he lies back in bed, his feet up just a little and a wide smile on his face as he traces the curve of his stomach. He imagines being so big he can’t move, imagines being so hopelessly pregnant he’s forced to stay in bed all day with John waiting on him hand and foot.

Ah, John.

Ten minutes ago – at least Sherlock thinks it was ten, he’s never been great when it comes to following time – the man had been trying to kick Sherlock out of bed with a huff of ‘your appointment’s in half an hour and I’m not being late again’. Sherlock stares at his feet and, with a grin, jumps up off of the bed. The seventeen week scan. He’s _seventeen weeks pregnant_.

Sherlock’s never been one for soppy sentiment, but he’s starting to understand what all the singing and dancing is about in those hopeless Disney movies his mother made him watch as a child.

Happiness.

He pulls on a shirt and stares at himself in the mirror, deliberately thrusting his abdomen outwards a little more than usual. Happiness. He thinks it suits him.

John opens his mouth to shout at Sherlock just as the man emerges from the bedroom, dressed and everything. The detective grins at his blogger and reaches for the other’s hand, pulling him in for a kiss. John blinks in surprise and pulls back a little, the smile on Sherlock’s face infectious. “What was that for?” he asks, mirth in his tone.

Sherlock laughs and looks up to the ceiling, before looking back and catching John’s blue eyes. He pulls in a breath and bites his cheeks, “Marry me.”

“What?”

Sherlock pulls away and makes for the stairs, a dumbfounded John following behind. The detective spins, nearly tripping over, and waves his hands in the air, “I don’t have a ring; or anything official but... there’s a child! The baby can be the ring! Our sign of commitment and… when this is over. When I’m not fat anymore, and instead of a child in my stomach there’s one in your arms, we can get married. Mycroft can officiate, because it’ll make him endlessly uncomfortable, and Mrs Hudson can come – and Anderson. Can you imagine Anderson’s face if we got married?” Sherlock laughed and hopped off of the last step, “And our child will be there. And it’ll be perfect.”

He span around and looked up to John, who, after one step, had given up on the stairs and was simply staring down at the madman by the door.

“What do you say, John?” Sherlock stops, rooting his feet to the floor and raising his eyebrows, “It could be dangerous.”

John all but falls down the stairs and into Sherlock’s arms, a crazed look on his face. He kisses Sherlock once, and then again because once is never enough, and then some more because he’ll never be done kissing Sherlock Holmes. Eventually, he pulls back for air and gasps. “Yes,” he breathes, “Yes, God help me, yes.”


	8. Invisible Threads are the Strongest Ties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised!
> 
> I'm not sure I've used the correct kind of tie in this chapter so, erhaha, if that's the case could someone tell me?

 “In life, unlike chess, the game continues after checkmate.” – Isaac Asimov.

***

_Six months later._

John stares at the mirror in grim determination, tugging at one end of his tie in the hope it will magically straighten out to perfection. It doesn’t, instead the pulling forces the knot to scrunch up (becoming even more impossible to undo) and the fat end of the tie ends up dangling significantly lower than the thin end. He curses and pulls the tie out, wondering how it is he’s forgotten how to tie a tie of all things.

There’s a light knock at the door and John turns, his hands still tangled in the blasted black fabric. At the sight of Mrs Hudson he sighs and smiles gratefully, dropping his hands and shrugging good-naturedly. The woman chuckles politely and shuffles in, seeming to have no issue with pulling the tie off of him as if he’s a child getting ready for school ineffectively.

“How’re you feeling, love?” She asks as she tightens the tie and spins him around to check the mirror. Her eyes fix onto his in the reflection and her eyebrows draw together in a way that suggests lying won’t help anyone.

He stares at himself, silently admitting the suit is a better fit than the old brown thing he was forced to throw away. He runs his tongue along his top lip a moment before straightening up minutely and smiling, “Yeah,” he runs a hand through his hair, “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks, Mrs Hudson.” He reaches for his jacket and pulls it on, shoving his hands into his pockets and, after a brief moment, grabs an umbrella to be safe.

“Are you coming?” he asks as he makes his way down the stairs to the black car waiting. Mrs Hudson smiles and shakes her head, following him down to her flat.

“You go ahead; I’ll be just behind with the little one.”

***

The car pulls up outside the restaurant and John looks out of the window, grinning at the state of the place. He lets himself out of the car, much to the upset of the chauffer, and stands outside the transformed establishment in awe for what is probably far too long.

Angelo’s should look ridiculous – but it looks anything but. Fairy lights are dangling from the simple red sign reading “Angelo’s Italian Restaurant”, as well as from the inside of the building. The windows, normally ever so slightly grimy, have apparently been cleaned and sparkle in the light drizzle now falling on John’s shoulders. The umbrella, he belatedly remembers, is still in the (now absent) car.

“Where’s Mycroft when you need him?” John sighs to himself, ducking into the restaurant. There are no tables inside; instead chairs are shoved to either side – leaving a sort-of makeshift aisle in the middle of the room. The kitchen door is decorated with more fairy lights, a large bow wrapped around the handle. To the left of the door there are two chairs shoved against each other with a large piece of red fabric draped over them as if the interior designer (most likely Angelo himself) wanted to create the impression of a table without having to put one of his broken wooden dining tables on display.

In the corner, circling around the pot plants that always reside in Angelo’s restaurant, are a handful of different sized candles. Wax is dripping onto the floor and several of the candles have already reached the end of their wicks, but the sentiment is there. And, whatever Sherlock might say, sentiment counts for something.

Sherlock.

Right.

John turns around in the empty room and fiddles a little with his hands.

***

A little while later Mrs Hudson turns up, Abigail seated comfortably in a portable car seat the elderly lady has balanced on one arm. At the sight of his daughter John grins, jumping up from the chair in the first row he’d been sat on and quickly relieving Mrs Hudson of the burden. He drops the heavy seat on the floor and efficiently unstraps Abbie, bouncing her a little as he lifts her up to meet his face. His little girl, clothed in a dark pink hat and a bright yellow bee outfit, with bright red shoes that don’t match a bit, smiles and babbles something John’s sure makes perfect sense in her own little world. John gasps and smiles, raising an eyebrow, “Is that so?” he asks his daughter, who seems to delight at his response and continues to talk away.

Mrs Hudson starts murmuring little things to herself, bustling away to the back of the restaurant, but John finds himself absorbed in a faux conversation with his child. When Abbie loses interest in talking to an overly-animated John her gaze starts to wonder, her blue eyes almost as keen as Sherlock’s. The army doctor turned father locates the nearest chair and sits, shuffling his daughter in such a way she can look around without having to put in too much effort. She is, after all, just six months old.

His land lady appears in his peripheral vision and he turns his head a fraction so he can look at her, the hand not supporting Abbie unconsciously playing with her tiny toes. “Everything okay?” he asks lightly, any bad feelings he might have had all eradicated by the feel of his daughter, real and solid, in his lap.

Whatever Mrs Hudson was about to say seems to vanish and she just shakes her head, bending to brush a finger over Abbie’s ear and smile at her. Abbie blinks distantly at Mrs Hudson, apparently no longer interested in making any effort (alarmingly like her father already, John notes) to communicate with the outside world. The land lady straightens up and watches John for a moment.

Finally, she speaks. “Everyone will be here in a moment,”

The end of the sentence trails off, as if unfinished, and John frowns, shifting Abbie in his lap a little. “Is that all?”

She pauses and folders her arms over her chest, the flowery dress and purple cardigan doing very little to hide the true Mrs Hudson. The Mrs Hudson who fought members of the American FBI and won. “Are you sure about this, dear?” her voice is stern and soft at the same time, and John wonders how it is that so many people in his life are contradictions of themselves, “Are you really, very sure?”

John opens his mouth to reply, then stops. He chews his tongue for a moment and Mrs Hudson takes a small amount of pity on him, “I’m only asking because of him, you know that. I can’t help but think about… him.”

John’s eyes fall shut and unconsciously he bounces his knees a little, causing a happy gurgle to escape Abigail’s mouth. The sound makes him smile, and after a while the smile turns into a laugh.

“I’m sure, Mrs Hudson. I am so very sure.”

***

The room fills with a peculiar arrangement of people. A few of the yarders turn up including, surprisingly, Anderson. Sarah sits in a corner surrounded by a few of the other GP’s from the surgery John worked at over three years ago now, and Molly Hooper is in deep conversation with a brown haired man with a stripy scarf and slightly wild eyes. John assumes he knew Sherlock from a case, but isn’t entirely sure. He thinks it’s bizarre how many of Sherlock’s previous clients have decided to turn up.

Greg Lestrade walks into the restaurant unaccompanied, his usual uniform on but a dry cleaning bag dangling from his right hand fingers. His eyes lock onto John’s almost immediately and he strides over, his grim face transforming into a smile at the sight of the colour-blind bumble bee in the doctor’s arms.

“How are you my darling?” The DI asks, bending his knees ever so slightly and tickling Abbie under her chin. A series of happy babbling follows and small crinkles form under Greg’s eyes, he nods and hums in agreement, pausing in surprise every now and again.

Once Abbie is done Greg gives her a finger to grip onto and looks up to John, his face still soft and in ‘child-mode’, “And how about you?” he asks, his tone strangely easy. John resists the urge to groan and instead just allows himself a small eye roll.

“Would everyone stop asking me that? It’s like they all expect me to break down or just run away or, or something.”

Greg snorts and shrugs, “Can you blame them?”

“What?”

“You’re getting married, mate,” he pauses and looks back to the little girl, “You’re getting married to Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes.”

He grins and chuckles lightly, “Of course we all expect you to run away.”

***

The Holmes brothers arrive together, neither looking particularly delighted to be in one another’s company. They both burst in through the door, Mycroft dressed in his usual suit with his acquiescence to the day’s events being a different shade of tie, and Sherlock in a simple black and white suit. The dark shade of black clashes with John’s blue, and his thin black tie makes him seem even longer and slimmer than John really thought possible. While most of Sherlock’s appearance could almost pass as smart his hair has been left to its own devices – small tendrils of dripping wet hair are sticking to the pristine shirt collar and almost-too-long curls spring into his eyes, obscuring his view ever so slightly.

John goes to greet the brothers as soon as he’s able to hand Abbie to someone else for the time being, and his hands find themselves in Sherlock’s hair before he’s really aware of it. He notices water dripping off of the detective’s shoulders and sighs, glancing out of the large windows to see the light drizzle of an hour ago has now transformed into a British monsoon.

“Couldn’t lend your brother an umbrella just this once Mycroft?”

The politician purses his lips and brings his gaze away from the room full of people to land on Sherlock. He sighs a heavy sigh and shakes his head, “He refused. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t grown up by now.”

John giggles and ruffles Sherlock’s hair a little, causing droplets of rain to rush out like a dog shaking its tail, he jumps onto tip toes to plant a quick kiss on the other man’s lips and smiles, “You berk.”

“He made me put product in it. It was tragic.”

“I’m sure.”

“This tie is uncomfortable.”

John rolls his eyes good humouredly and pulls at the tie a little, running his fingers down its length. “Well, I like it. So keep it on, yeah?”

Sherlock huffs, “The things I do for you Dr Watson.”

“It’s because you love me.”

The detective’s eyes glitter and he laughs, pushing John lightly in the chest and shaking his head, “Urgh, God help me,

“I do.”

***

Fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay okay okay I'm sorry to be a complete loser but seriously thank you to all the amazing people who've read and commented and left kudos and.. urgh! I just want to hug you all you cuties! This was originally meant to be three chapters, maybe a few thousand words, and it was meant to take me the length of study leave. 
> 
> Seven months later here we are :c
> 
> I won't rant on as I'd like to but thank you (again!). This thing has 150 more kudos than expected.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy series three tomorrow (or whenever you watch it)!
> 
> (I'm going to upload a few deleted scenes at some point if anyone was interested in that.)

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments make me very very happy. Thank you for reading (-:


End file.
